


The Thing You Hate

by Hobbitual_Psychick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, British Men of Letters, Case Fic, Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), Crime Scenes, Cursed objects, Digital Art, F/M, Ficwriters, Gen, Ghouls, Mentions of Myth & Folklore, Multi, Siren (Supernatural), Slow Build, Suicide Attempt, Vampires, Writing Fanfanfiction, mermaid, some sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2020-06-24 12:54:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 125
Words: 296,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19724086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbitual_Psychick/pseuds/Hobbitual_Psychick
Summary: There’s a saying in my family, “be careful how you judge, and what you play with. One day you may turn around and realise you’ve become The Thing You Hate.”





	1. Duck Ponds and Toddlers

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 1: Duck Ponds and Toddlers**

****

Michele Chadwick jumped when her phone buzzed with a notification.   
She pulled it out of her pocket, and stared down at it with a frown, surprised to see an email from the fanfiction website, that notified her of a comment on her story, ‘Thing of Beauty.’

The woman narrowed her eyes, and glared at it as if offended. 

But then, a happy squeak and some rather realistic quacking from the small mop-haired child sitting beside her on the park bench, drew her attention away.  
She smiled at her toddler, putting her phone away, with a small shrug.

‘ _Now is good, leave it at that,’_ she advised herself silently as her small son wiggled around beside her in excitement.

Sighing ruefully, she tussled the small boy’s hair and turned her green eyes back to the scene before her.  
The water of the duck pond reflected the deep blue of the sky above, ruffled by the light summer breeze.  
Real ducks clustered around her sneakers, quacking eagerly, swarmed around the park bench, and spilled out into the water, a frenzied feathered crowd.  
Her son had taken the opportunity afforded by her inattention to pull a slice of bread out of the bag, tossed it whole into the feathered sea and chortled in delight as a scuffle broke out between a group of ducks.  
The mother grabbed the bread bag back, pulling out another slice, and tore it up into a pile of smaller pieces for her son to toss instead.  
Smiling indulgently she watched the chaos of ducks jumping into the air to catch the morsels and picked up a handful to toss out to the ducks closer to the back.

Mother and son fed the hungry for some time.  
Finally when most of the bread was gone, and the ducks had begun to lose interest the boy caught her eye, grinning cheekily and picked up a fistful of bead to shove into his mouth.

  
The toddler munched away at the stale bread for a moment, little cheeks ridiculously puffed, then he let out a quack, and a shower of soggy crumbs.

The mother laughed, dusting crumbs off her jeans and her son’s lap.

“Come on you little beastie, if you are so hungry you have to eat duck bread, we better get you home. You quack enough without eating like a duck too."

She swept the wriggling toddler up into her arms and carried him back over the grass, in a bumpy trot. Heading towards the gravelled carpark and the silver people-mover that sat waiting.

....

Small charge strapped in the backseat, Michele climbed behind the wheel and drove towards home.

  
As she drove, her mind nudged uncomfortably back towards the comment waiting for attention on her phone.

It surprised her a little, all of her die-hard reviewers had reviewed.  
‘Thing of Beauty,’ should now be buried quietly in the archives.  
Forgotten.

She couldn't work it out, but every time she thought about the story she'd written, she felt.... guilty.

She knew it was stupid, but her guilt and discomfort over the story she’d written continued… she felt as though she was responsible for the suffering of two people, two people she was fond of.

Sam and Dean Winchester were fictional characters from a series of not very popular books, Supernatural, by Carver Edlund.  
They were fictional brothers, who fought the forces of Evil with a capital E. Lived broken lives, doing the best they could to protect the world, and each other, from monsters and supernatural threats, that average people knew nothing of.

She'd found the books at a time in her life when, quite frankly she’d been falling apart.  
Her once self-confident, happy-go-lucky, bratty, and so amazingly smart oldest son… had become a broken, shivering, neurotic wreck. She and her son had always had a special bond, but now suddenly he trusted no one else, and he was even pulling away from her!

She'd been beyond horrified by the sudden change. Franticly worried that something awful had happened to him. Feared that he’d been molested at school or something equally horrific.

Finally, after investigating every angle, visiting half a dozen different doctors, dragging painfully through 'the system,’ filled with an ever increasing bewilderment, panic, self-recrimination and fear for her son; ‘the experts' had informed her. "Your child is high functioning autistic."  
They had shaken her hand, told her they'd contact her with appointments as waiting lists permitted and told her to, “have a nice day."  
For months, the system had been silent, while she watched the person she loved most in the world (not that she would EVER admit that to her husband or other 3 kids) disappear and become someone else, someone she barely recognised.  
There were no words to describe how it broke her heart.  
Looking back on it now, she knew she'd gone a quiet, very functional, kind of mad. Caring for her family with a mechanical kind of obsessive desperation, while spending every other waking moment researching obsessively, and trying to FIX IT!

The realisation came to her one day, between the millionth journal article on the causes of Autism and a webpage of vitamin supplementation and essential oils; that she was looking at her son, the person she loved most in the world, the light of her life, as a problem to be fixed.

  
That led to horrified tears, and a realisation she needed to stop, trying to fix it, stop trying to make things like they had once been for herself and her family.  
Stop trying to bring back what she believed she had had, for the first 7 years of her son’s life, and to try and accept, value and live with what she did.

Sam and Dean Winchester had been part of that attempt, to stop, and to accept.   
A distraction from her destructive obsession, when the internal pressure and mental anguish got too bad.  
Their fictional lives became a kind of industrial strength pain killer, or sedative.  
Reading about them going through Hell (sometimes quite literally) and still making the world a better place for others, it helped.  
Their sense of duty, family and humour, in the face of a life they had been forced into, one that was pretty much a clusterfuck… it was a thing of beauty to her.  
Reading about it (even if they were fictional) helped her feel less trapped, burdened, and alone.   
It had given her a weird kind of hope, that she could be brave, in the face of her own situation.

  
There were days the books helped her see the little evils, with a small e, that made up her daily life, for what they were.  
She was only the mother of a child with an invisible disability, one which many people didn’t believe in or 'get.’

She might find herself forced to pit her wits against a school and health system which seemed specifically designed to make things worse rather than better, and it was frustrating and hard. But it wasn’t Hell.

There were other days, dealing with an 'expert,’ teacher or principal, where she caught herself wishing those smaller ‘evil entities’ had lore she could use to banish them.

Sometimes she fantasied that all she needed was the right research, to quote the right words and she could trap, kill or vanquish the instituational stupidity she fought on her son’s behalf; the way the Winchester’s fought monsters in Carver Edlunds books.   
That she could be a hero, if only for her son.

It was a comforting idea, that she could push through despite exhaustion, frustration and others ignorance.

The problem was, like most heavy-duty pain killers she'd gotten hooked, and when the supply of Carver Edlunds books ran out she'd been forced to more.... disreputable sources.....

Fanfiction.

The major problem with fanfiction was, like back street drug dealers, some ficwriters were peddling some very bad stuff.

It, had, been, a, horrible, education!

There were all sorts of horrors out there… ones a nice, rather sheltered, naïve, Christian lab tech turned housewife and mum of 4, had never imagined.

Michele agreed with Dean Winchester when he said “Demons I get. People are crazy.”  
But, despite humanities scary side, she'd found some writers that stuck to what was apparently referred to as cannon, wrote stories with actual plots, and didn't use the two guys she'd begun to think of as 'friends' as blow-up dolls for their own amusement.... so it was mostly okay…

But then, then, ‘Thing of Beauty,’ had happened to her.   
Oh, it had started out so innocently.  
Write one of your own.  
A beach trip, what could go wrong....

Somehow, she'd ended up being responsible for hurting and traumatising 'her fictional friends. But she’d been unable to stop writing. Because otherwise, the images stayed in her head clawing at the inside, stopping her from sleeping and almost driving her crazy.   
So she'd pushed through and finished the bloody fanfic story, then decided she would never ever, do that again. 

No way, no how!

She'd read other people’s work (as long as she stayed away from the yucky stuff) and she'd swap messages with the few fanfic reviewers and authors she'd gotten to know through the experience.

But no more writing! It just messed with her head. And she really didn't need that.

...ooo0ooo...

Two hours later, four kids were fed, one toddler was down for his nap. And her autistic bumblebee activist had delivered a half hour lecture unto her on achievement of lucid dream states, based on his research morning, googling and watching YouTube.

Shaking her head to herself in bemusement, she wondered if she should mention the Supernatural book with 'African dream root' in it to the eight year old genius, but decided the last thing she needed was to expose her sensitive heart on his sleeve kid to anything even slightly related to Supernatural.

Monsters, blood and violence could stay the heck away from her kid, that she thought of as 'her Sam.'  
The real world hurt him enough, no need to traumatise him or add to his worries with make believe stuff.   
Despite eating the provided sustenance, the two ornamental couch cover teens appeared to had not moved from their position on the couch with their iPads, all morning, but for now she'd let them be.  
After all they'd ‘babysat’ the autistic little brother, (which mostly meant getting him out of the house if it started to spontaneously burn down) while she took out the smallest Chadwick out, to run him ragged and have his daily duck fix.

So now, for a little while, there was free time.

  
Time for a coffee, that review, and to check in on her American ficwriter friend, "Peaches."

….

Well that was weird!

Staring down at the review from "SWrocksaltandsilver," Michele frowned.

…..

MicheleChadwick,

A new review has been posted to your story.

Story: Thing of beauty  
Chapter: 30. Chapter 30

From: Swrocksaltandsilver  
\-------------------

Swrocksaltandsilver: I'm sorry the stuff that happened in Montauk messed with your head. Don't take it on board too much, life happens.  
SW  
\-------------------  
Do not reply to this email.

FanFiction https://www.fanfiction.net

Follow us  
Twitter https://twitter.com/fictionpress  
Blog http://blog.fictionpress.com

….

For long moments Michele stared at the message.

SWrocksaltandsilver was sorry that the stuff that happened in Montauk had upset her?

Umm .....?!

Last she checked, she'd written "Thing of Beauty,” if anyone was responsible for the events that had 'happened' in Montauk it most definitely WAS MicheleChadwick.

That said, she guessed it was polite to reply. What SWrocksaltandsilver had written was odd, but it was kind of nice. She'd take odd, nice, and sympathetic over some of the avid, 'make them hurt more so I can watch them bleed,’ PMs she'd gotten.   
Right now though, she wanted to tell Peaches about it.

Opening Skype she found Peaches on her contacts list.

  
**1:30 PM**   
**Hi Peaches how's my favourite American ficwriter doing? Guess what, I got another review on Thing of Beauty.**

  
As she typed, she wondered if her young friend was napping, the time zone across the world thing, was confusing, but Peaches habit of staying up most of the night writing, then sleeping at odd hours, putting her into a nearly New Zealand routine.

  
Peaches, 1:31 PM  
Told you it happens from time to time.

Came Peaches zen reply.  
  
Peaches, 1:32PM  
So, did the hit of the good stuff change your mind, are you ready to admit defeat and start writing again?

A rueful smile curved Michele's lips, yes there'd been that little jolt of the pleasure which came from seeing that someone had written a review, that they’d read something she'd written ... even if she had mixed feelings about the story itself.

Admitting that to Peaches though, that'd be starting down the slippery slope.

**1:35 PM  
You, Peaches, you're a Good writer, you deserve to be condemned to a never ending eternity of being a ficwriter ..... maybe even a grownup author one day.... me ... nah there's no proof I'm any good, not unless a really good writer like you reads it and tells me it doesn't totally suck. (But not you, cos you might lie and be nice, just so you can have company in your damnation. Besides you don't have time to read my crud, I'm waiting impatiently for your next chapter update!!!!! ) Writing one little fanfic can't condemn me, I can get out, lead a normal life...**

  
Peaches, 1:35PM  
Awww come on, you know you want to

Peaches response made her snort in amusement, she was pretty sure Peaches was right.

**1:37 PM  
The review was a bit weird...**

Peaches, 1:37PM  
Weird how?

  
Copying and pasting Michele dumped a copy of the review into the Skype instant message box.

Peaches, 1:39PM  
You're right that is a bit weird

**1:39PM  
Not exactly creepy weird though…**

The silence stretched and Michele wondered what Peaches was up to.

Peaches, 1:42PM  
There's no Bio on the account or favourited stories.

**1:43PM  
I always forget about the Bios I never filled one in.**

Peaches, 1:44PM  
I updated mine recently.

  
**1:45PM  
You know, I've never looked at it.... I'm like a cat, prefer things I hunt and kill myself.**

The laughing emoji popped up in the Skype box.

Peaches, 1:46PM  
So are you going to hunt and kill SWrocksaltamdsilver too? Add her to your captive collection of ficwriters? You know, if we all stopped talking to you you'd fold and start writing again.

**1:48PM  
And if I stopped talking to you, you might actually sleep!**

A fond smile quirked Michele's lips as she typed.

**1:50PM  
Or maybe you'd just reach your 400k New Year’s resolution word count quicker, without me annoying you so often, oh great and most dedicated ficwriter**

Peaches, 1:52PM  
Jokes on you, I'm not annoyed

**1:53PM  
-Sigh- I'm doing it all wrong again, and I try so hard! I'm going to go send rocksalt a message.**

Peaches, 1:54PM  
Don't you have enough in your collection yet?

**1:55PM  
Nah I've only got three, you, Cat, and the social worker... the other two are just emails every so often. You my fruity American friend, are my favourite!**

Peaches, 1:55PM  
Awww luv u 2

…

Closing the Skype box and leaving Peaches to get on with writing, or napping, or eating cheese from a can for all she knew, Michele wondered how to reply to SWrocksaltandsilver's review.


	2. Where in the World is SW?

**The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 2: Were in the World is SW**

For while Michele just sat and stared at the review, then clicked on the reply link and began typing.

…

Hi SW, thanks for your review, I appreciate your words.  
I'm still working out how I feel about my story and fanfiction as a whole. How did you put it? "the stuff that happened in Montauk,” did indeed mess with my head!  
I know Sam and Dean are fictional characters, (don’t worry) but still… I am troubled by what they went through, and that I created it.  
However SW, that is my issue, not yours, more a struggle to integrate or repress my shadow, as Carl Jung would say.  
I'm actually attempting to give up writing fanfic right now because of that discomfort....  
I’m hopeful I’ll be able to kick the habit.  
But .... I have been told there's no escape once you start.  
Reviews give one an endorphin hit, which doesn’t help the adiction.  
Your review was pretty much a glass of wine to an alcoholic.  
So, thanks, had to cash in my sobriety chip again *sighs long sufferingly and shrugs rueful.*  
Back to my 12-step program, and my unwavering belief in a higher power.  
I’m mostly kidding you understand, and for the record, talking via PM with other fic readers/writers helps my attempt to stop writing Supernatural fanfic!

So, let's play a game, it's called "Where in the world is SW"(ever play that game where in the world is Carmen Santiago? It was designed to teach kids geography.)  
If I win you can write back and tell why you're lurking here in fanfic.  
Ok so… I'm guessing you're in America, parts unknown. How did I do?

MC2

....

Half an hour later her phone announced there was an email from fanfic, she had received another message from SWrocksaltandsilver.

How nice, SW was going to play!

….

Hey Michele, you win!

You're correct, on both actually. America, and the parts unknown. We are currently driving between places and it's too dark to see where we are. So, I'll give you both as a correct.

Yes, I do know what Where in the world is Carmen Santiago, was. Here, it was also a TV program on PBS when I was 8 or 9.  
I used to really like watching it TBH.  
My older brother hated it.

I'm sorry if I messed with your fan-fiction writers anonymous rehab program, it wasn't my intention, honestly!  
It would be wonderful if some of the other fanfiction writers had access to your 12-step program. Do you think you could send them a pamphlet or something? I could compile you a list of usernames.  
Sadly, I doubt the ones most in need of it would avail themselves, however.

Forgive me for saying, you might not escape as easily as you hope.  
I'm sorry about that, truly. You seem like a nice normal person.

So, I guess I better pay my dues.  
Why am I lurking in fanfiction?  
The easy answer is, curiosity.  
The hard answer? I'm not entirely sure.  
You aren’t the only one with conflicted feelings about fanfiction.

So, do you actually live in New Zealand?  
I loved Lord of The Rings, read it as a child and the scenery of New Zealand fitted the world of hobbits dwarfs and elves perfectly.

Not that America doesn’t have amazing scenery, I've crossed it from sea to shining sea many times for work. Okay TBH, we very rarely see the sea.  
It just occurred to me, you mightn’t get the reference. Sea to shining sea, refers to a song called ‘America the Beautiful,’ it’s a patriotic song everyone raves about here.

Are the other details in your authors notes real? I find I have a lot of questions, but I hesitate to ask them.  
Are you open to a game of twenty questions?

-SW  
  
....

Well, that was a nice long PM back, Michele thought with a smirk.

There was every chance Peaches was right, she might be adding another fanfic denizen to the ranks of ‘her people.’

Collecting strangers was probably not the best habit in the world, but she told herself it was fairly good methadone for ficwriting.  
Especially since there was a weird edgey feeling in the back of her head again, a feeling like before she'd started writing, "Thing of Beauty."

Scrolling up, she reread SW's words again.

" _Forgive me for saying, you might not escape as easily as you hope.  
I'm sorry about that, truly. You seem like a nice normal person_.”

SW was a tiny bit odd, but Michele thought she was also “kind of nice,” from her experience, getting to know Peaches and the other women from ‘The Supernatural Fandom,’ she thought most readers of Carver Edlunds books were (except those with an obsessive fetish for pushing straight men into gay sex with other species, incest or torture porn…)

Closing her eyes with a grimace, Michele rubbed her temples where yet another headache was beginning to gather.

“ _Too much screen time_ ,” she thought sourly. “ _I'm as bad as the girls!”_

Well, SW would wait.

There were chores to do and two teenage daughters to prod with a stick.

“ _We can do some family bonding ... Washing folding time,”_ she thought with a sigh... because she _loved_ folding washing…. About as much as her precious teenagers did, _she just hid it better._ After all, that's what being a mother was about, teaching by example, and creating decent members of society.

Family, duty and service.  
Despite how different her life was from the fictional world the Winchesters inhabited, there were more than a few similarities too.

It's just the monster she was steeling herself to battle was many, many baskets of clean clothes that needing folding, snarling teens and the autistic meltdown she'd -possibly- have to endure, when she informed his royal autistic highness that he would be putting his washing away and until it was put away, the iPad would be off limits.

At times there was actually bravery needed…..sometimes ducking flying objects and bruises.

Transitions between activities could be counted on to be problematic with an autistic child, there were times when a switch flipped and her otherwise gorgeous, compliant 8-year-old, would have a complete meltdown over something utterly minor. And she was eft just trying to minimise the damage.  
It wasn't personal, and afterwards he'd be ashamed and apologetic.  
He didn't mean it... That's what made it so hard, on both of them, like dealing with unstable explosives... you became hyper aware, all the time, trying to predict and avoid, or just brace for impact. It was why they said parents of autisic children often suffered something similar to the combat fatigue, soldiers suffered in long term active combat.

She got it, she accepted it. You rolled the dice when you chose to have kids.  
If you really lucked out you got a genius kid, one that gave you a side order of something like PTSD.

....So, she'd go poke the teens into being useful members of society instead of entitled little madams.  
Then go roll the autism dice, possibly, to duck the slings and arrows of outraged autistim. As calmly as she could, and most definitely with a dose of humour (because a sense of humor was always _a thing of beauty_.)

She would insist on completion of the tasks set before them, because it was her responsibility, and failing wasn’t an option in her books.

Yes, the monsters were different, the danger not as extreme, but a Winchester philosophy sure helped. She reserved the right to exchange whiskey for fanfic, to get through her day though..... Because _really, what kind of idiot wanted to deal with 4 kids and a hangover?_

Speaking of headaches, first, a dose of ibuprofen might be a good idea.


	3. Messages at Dawn

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 3: Messages at Dawn**

It was 5am.  
She'd woken to a small black cat nibbling on her fingers and a 2-year-old breathing in her ear, small fist tangled in her hair.

  
Distangling with practiced skill, Michele slid out of bed, cautious not to wake baby or hubby.  
Grabbing her glasses, she followed the cat down to her bowl.

The cat wake surfed before her, like a dolphin, narrowly missed tripping her on the way down the steps, wound around her ankles as she tipped dry food and new water into the empty bowls.

Cat fed, jug on to boil for coffee.  
Michele picked up her phone off the charger, and wondered if Peaches had finished that chapter she'd still been working on when Michele had bid her goodnight and gone to watch a movie with her husband, the previous evening.

Yes!  
Not only had Peaches finished her chapter, but there was also an email from her favourite Slovenian Cat.

Looking out the window sleepily at the brightening line of hills, Michele watched darkness dispel into changing orange and gold, herald of a new day, tucked her sock clad feet under her and settled on the sofa, phone in hand.

The question was; where to start with such riches?

She owed SW a reply too, didn't she?

First in line, got first attention.

SW it was then.

….

Hi SW, it's a new day here in New Zealand. Yes, that's really where I am, the authors notes are true (why wouldn’t they be?)  
In fact, my name actually is my pen name, I had a brain fade when signing up ...  
Apparently we aren't supposed to do that, use our real name as a pen name, according to my Slovenian fanfic friend "Cat."  
But hey, I hardly think it matters.  
I'm in New Zealand, the number of people here who have actually read Carver Edlunds books, let alone actually end up reading fanfic because of them... Well, they probably could be counted on one hand.

My writing (the whole one I've written) is neither good enough to inspire homicidal fans (like in Steven Kings "Misery.”) Nor bad enough to merit execution to protect literature from worse crimes.... so, I recon I'm pretty safe.

I must say I'm impressed with my own skills of deduction! - Though let's be honest, it was a pretty good bet, about 90% of Supernatural fanfic readers/writers are in America.

So, rocksaltandsilver is pretty obvious, in a sort of 'Supernatural' way.  
SW could either be your initials..... Or are you could be a ‘Sam girl?’  
*frowns thoughtfully.*  
So forgetting the hundreds of possible W surnames, and assuming the SW doesn’t stand for Sam Winchester.... Are you a Sophie, a Stephanie, a Samantha, a Sally, or a Sandra perchance..... ?

Feel free not to answer all and any questions.  
I know if you're in America - paranoia and keeping safe is probably not quite so silly there, in the land of "the right to bear arms," and "global terror attacks."  
Feel free to ask me any questions you want, my life is pretty dull really.  
The major excitements at Casa Chadwick tend to be things like coming home from church to find an injured seagull on our front lawn.  
We are about 30 minutes’ drive from a beach, so it was rather unusual and sort of odd, especially since, that was the day I finished the sandcastle scene in Thing of Beauty. I mightn’t be comfortable with most of ‘Thing of Beauty,’ but I do firmly believe everyone needs more sandcastle building in their lives.  
Possibly all the ocean vibes emanating from our house attracted the seagull?  
Who knows?  
Sometimes life is just weird.  
I never thought I'd have to take a seagull to the vet, but that's what happened. Believe me it was the preferable option, my bumblebee activist, REALLY wanted to keep it as a pet! Meep! Black backed seagulls aren’t small and they are pretty vicious, but they are also supposedly an endangered species, thus the vet trip and transfer to a bird sanctuary was by far smartest option.  
Bless Johnny’s heart, still cried like he was losing his only friend when we left it there. Just as well he’s never read Johnathan Livingston Seagull ... *Shakes head ruefully.* My parents had similar issues with me as a child. I was forever bringing home strays. When we have our own children they make us realise what we put our parents.  
Anyway, SW I better get on with my day, be safe over there on the other side of the world.

-MC2

…

Sending her reply off into the inter-webs, she did the math, +5hrs, minus a day.

Would Peaches be up? Who knew? Heaven knew how late the kid had stayed up writing, the previous night.

….

**5:35AM  
You up yet?**

  
….

The Skype box stayed empty and still. There was a chance Peaches was out enjoying a dose of fresh air.  
But the likelihood was she was curled up asleep cuddling her laptop and her golden retriever, dreaming up ideas for a new chapter or one shot.  
It would be more fun to read Peach’s next instalment when her friend was round, so next to the emails.

….

Snow pictures from Cat!  
Not having snow where she lived, Michele found the whole snow thing both disturbing and fascinating in equal measure. It was pretty to look at sure, but snow was cold and wet, two things she wasn’t keen on.  
Photos were a nice compromise. Hoping the power outages Cat mentioned weren't a huge issue and her friend was warm and safe Michele zapped off a quick reply and attached a few summer duck pond photos for good measure.

…ooo0ooo…

The lounge door cracked open and two small faces peered through, one small black and furry; one cheeky and dimpled.  
The slightly demonic duo of baby and cat were ready for another day of mayhem. Both headed down the hallway with a set purpose in mind.

  
Moments later, the sound of a small metal car impacting big sister’s bedroom door made Michele grin hugely.

Who needed an alarm clock in a household with the baby and cat wake up gang at work?

A minute later a dishevelled grumpy looking teenaged daughter emerged, followed by a two year old demanding "Oootuuubbbee" - Because Mummy didn't know how to make YouTube work (oh yes she did, but that's our little secret) but big sister did.

Receiving the special teenglare that translated clearly as, "Hey, the corner bit of the couch is mine, what are you doing there," Michele got up and relinquished the coveted position.  
Left teen and two year old to commune with the electronics.  
It was time to make porridge for Mr 2, and coffee and toast to lure the hubby out of bed.

The sun had risen and peace and quiet was at an end.  
Time to go do the adult thing.

…ooo0ooo…

At some point, Peaches turned up on Skype and making breakfast for the family became an exercise in multitasking. Reading Peaches latest chapter sort of stalled things a bit.

….

**6:13AM  
You evil, mean, cruel ficwriter! Poor Sam! Poor Dean, he'll go nuts, how could you?!! And a cliffhanger!!!??? you torture everyone, how do you do that?**

Peaches, 6:14AM  
Bwhahaha!!!

Michele smiled and shook her head at the reply, Peaches loved what she did. If the plot arc called for suffering Winchesters, she wrote it with no personal angst, then dropped a cliffhanger at the end to torture her readers too.

Michele sighed in envy, she could read Peaches suffering Winchesters, but writing.... that was different. Writing TOB had been like been like being forced to sit in the room and watch, unable to do anything.  
The images of blood on abused skin were as real as any memory of her daily life. So much realer than watching some TV program, reading a book or fic.  
That was so …not normal, and it really disturbed her.

**6:40AM  
By the way I caught a grammar mistake in the second paragraph, third line.**

She informed Peaches, and then wondered belatedly if that was stepping over some line she was unaware of.

Personally she liked to know. Mistakes irritated her, but editing had always been a sort of afterthought, one that required a PC, so it only happened occasionally, during nap-time.  
Dumping ‘Thing of Beauty’ onto fanfic as quickly as she finished writing it had been a compulsion. Get it out, and away from her, to stop the images.

  
Peaches, 6:42AM  
Thanks, found it. Fixed it!

  
\- O.K. so playing grammar police wasn't overstepping, thank goodness.

**6:44AM  
Want a coffee?**

Snapping a photo of the coffee cups with her phone, she sent it via skype, to be a smart ass.

Peaches 6:45AM  
Be a bit cold by the time I got it.

**6:47AM  
Yep, but it’s hardly my fault you have the horrible bad taste to live so far away.**

Sipping her coffee, she mused on Peaches chapter.

**6:50AM  
Dean’s going to blame himself isn't he? And I bet John’s going to blame Dean too, forget who the parent actually is.  
Have you ever noticed how John always called Sam, "Your brother" rather than my son? I always find those small details in the books really good.**

Peaches, 6:50AM  
Sam was pretty much Dean’s, since he carried him out of the fire.

**6:53AM  
Yeap, poor kid never had a chance. "Take care of Sammy," was never a choice, was it? It was trained into him before he could even fight it.**

Peaches, 6:54AM  
Over-protective guilt ridden big brother. You love it!

**6:57AM  
I don’t know, but I can’t exactly judge Dean’s psyche. It’s too… hypocritical.  
I mean I have my own Sam.  
Plenty of duty, guilt and over-protection here.  
Speaking of, I better go parent.**


	4. Hunter or Hunted

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 4: Hunter of Hunted**

After a morning spent doing chores, chasing balls, exploring the outdoors and supervising the transformation of a two-year-old into ‘the sand creature from beyond the back fence.' Michele decided coffee was in order, while the arcane process of exorcizing the sand monster with some not-so-holy bath water proceeded, supervised by big brother.

Leaning in the bathroom doorway sipping her coffee Michele watched the process indulgently.  
Apparently, exorcism of sand monsters required quite a bit of splashing, giggling and yelling. Ducking a particularly enthusiastic spray of water, Michele decided to take a few bath photos to store away for later parental humiliation purposes... say a 21st birthday party.

Kids grew up too quick, photos pinned down the moment.  
"This too shall pass," were similationiously the most comforting and heart rending words in the world.

 _Oh, yay!_ There was a reply from SWrocksaltandsilver!  
First though, the troops needed drying, dressing, feeding and the smallest one needed a nap.

...ooo0ooo...

Mission accomplished, Michele watched two 15 year olds and an 8-year-old head out the door 'to the park.'  
She knew ‘going to the park’ was kid code for going to the Dairy to waste our pocket money on sweets.  
But …well, some days getting the 8-year-old bumblebee activist to go out of the house was a mission. An unsolicited outing was Never to be sneezed at. If sugar was what it took, sugar was what it took.

Wandering into her bedroom Michele flopped on the bed, clutching her phone.

Silence descended, broken only by a patter of paws in the hallway, a jingle of a small collar bell and the impact of her small black furry body on the bed beside her.

"Slinky Minx, the foolish SWrocksaltandsilver has fallen into my cunning trap," she monologued to her feline companion and stroked her black fur with all the satisfaction of an evil mastermind.

"Soon, I shall add her to my collection," she intoned again and grinned, opening up SWs message.

….

Hey again Michele.  
I'm Sam, sometimes, but rarely Sammy.  
The only person that calls me Samantha is my brother, when he being an ass. I am not a Sam girl, as you put it, and I'm not a Dean girl either, before you ask.  
The whole Sam and Dean girl thing, it’s sort of freaky if you ask me!

Your seagull story made me smile.  
Sometimes a normal dull life sounds pretty attractive, my brother and I are private investigators - too often we see the darker side of life.  
You think Americans are paranoid Huh?  
Possibly you're right, but you know - there could just be more out to get us here.  
You still should be more careful online, seriously, you give an awful lot about yourself away.

So, looking back at your authors notes, you live in New Zealand. You are married, to a man that you describe as 'techno hubby.' You’re the writer of the family. A stay at home mother, have four children, one is a son with autism, who has green eyes and prays, another one who's two years old and ?two? daughters, one of whom is in high school.  
You worked in a laboratory, possibly a high security one of some sort, possibly for the government. And you are an expert in particle physics, theology and cake decoration (interesting combination.)  
You spent a lot of time being sick while pregnant. You have some sort of religious leaning, probably Christian, from your comments about Christmas. Owned a motorbike jacket and a pet rock, so possibly a motorbike too.  
You get migraines, do you get them often? You also seem to be disturbed by hurt or hurting Winchesters. And now I know your real name and that you live within 30 minutes’ drive of a beach.  
That is a lot of personal information.... It seems greedy to want more. But if I ask you a question you're more likely to write back. So, here's my question and it's the one you asked me "Why Supernatural fanfic?"  
Looking forward to your answer.

-Sam

…..

  
Michele looked at her phone uncertainly, that was a lot of information, she'd thoughtlessly scattered throughout Thing of Beauty, and suddenly she felt uncomfortable.

Who was hunting who, here? With Peaches, and Cat and the others... there had never been that level of scrutiny; or if there was, none of them had ever spelled it out quite so clearly. Maybe it was just Sam's job, there was a definite vibe of intelligent scrutiny about that PM which made her edgy.

Suddenly, she wondered if any of her other 'captive' fanfic people had been creeped out by her gentle prying and guessing games.  
Possibly turnabout was fair play. Still .., Sam was probably harmless and could make an interesting diversion.

….

Hi Sam, sometimes Sammy! It's nice to meet you, uhh without actually ...meeting you?

  
I take it back, there were a few untruths in my authors notes for Thing of Beauty. I'm not an expert in particle physics, theology or cake decorating. I simply know enough to get by!  
The actual focus of my BMLS degree was Microbiology, Immunology and Virology.

Why fanfiction? Hmm, I started reading the Supernatural books as a distraction to stop myself obsessively researching autism after my son was diagnosed with it just over a year ago.  
I'm not a Sam or Dean girl either, but weird as it sounds I've come to like and respect them.

Maybe it's the idea that I can be brave and get through my own hell (I can't even begin to explain how my sons sudden decent into autism broke me all to pieces,) if the Winchester boys can get through theirs. Stupid Hu? But hey!

Being a private investigator must be.... hmmm ... Your tone implies it can sometimes be rough.  
Do you like your job?  
Maybe that's the wrong question.... maybe I should ask if you're good at it instead? There have been plenty of times in my life I’ve been good at work stuff but didn’t actually like it much.  
Your tone also implies your brother is both an ass and important to you,m. I've got an older brother, he’s a geologist, works in oil exploration, it's not that huge an industry here, ?unlike the USA? NZ is such a long way away from most places, so carbon footprints etc etc.

He doesn't live close to me and I miss him at times, but he's married with kids of his own .... growing up and away sucks a bit. I guess that could be part of the fascination people have with Supernatural. Two brothers with that tight bond into adulthood. Maybe we all have that longing deep down to hold onto that time, to keep believing our older sibling will have our back against everything, unwieldy forces of the parents, slings and arrows of fortune and all the evils of the world included.

I speak as the younger sibling here. Heaven knows if the older sibling misses having their annoying kid brother or sister tagging round after them all the time.

The psychology of Supernatural fanfic denizens fascinates me. Maybe it's just because I'm still unsure how I got trapped here... possibly I'm simply trying to find out where I went wrong, *self-deprecating grin,* I concede I have no one to blame but myself!

My advice Sam, make a run for it before curiosity turns into something worse, don't linger, don't drink the water and if you value your sanity..... don't write anything!

God bless  
MC2

….


	5. Not Abraham

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 5: Not Abraham**

The next few days there was no reply from Sam, that wasn't at all unusual.  
When communicating with total strangers from across the world.  
When you connect, you connect, when you don't, you don't.  
And if you never 'talk' again you wish the person well out there in their little bubble of the real world.

Peaches was studying for important tests, the teens were visiting their Aunty, the hubby was at work, the toddler was napping and the autistic genius 8-year-old was researching another topic of fascination.

It was one of those miracle moments, there was nothing that needed doing.

" _How is it even possible_?" Michele thought irritably as she wandered through her quiet, tidy house feeling restless and on edge.

Pacing back and forth she found herself rubbing her hands together, combing them back through her hair.  
Unable to stay still, like some druggy suffering from DT’s.

It was bizarre!  
A pressure in the back of her mind.

A feeling she had forgotten something important, a feeling she was late or disaster was just out of sight, waiting to strike.  
Like an itch in the back of her head, gnawing away at her peace of mind.

Rubbing her knuckles against her lips until it hurt a little, Michele closed her eyes, breathing through her nose in steadying breaths and tried to work out what exactly was wrong.

Maybe Peaches had been right.

_("If we all stopped talking to you you'd fold and start writing again.")_

Was she just bored, and at a loose end?  
So completely unused to just existing now, without some crisis or something pressing to do?

Michele walked back to her bedroom and picked up the bible from the bedside cabinet, sitting down resolutely.

There had been a time, before autism diagnosis, when the book in her hands had been the world to her.  
She bit her lip, looking down to the slightly ragged cover of bible in her hands.

Grief, guilt, anger, hurt, and longing warred inside her.

There had been a time, not so long ago when she'd wondered if she had lost her faith entirely.

When you love someone or something so completely you are filled with glorious confidence in your relationship.... and then you run smack into something you never expected, and discover that there is one thing you can't forgive.  
It shakes your world.

She wasn't Abraham, God could have asked her for anything..... BUT NOT HER SON!

Now she could admit God wasn't cruel, He hadn't asked her to hold her son down and plunge a knife in him.  
He'd only asked her to let go of who she'd thought her son was… and would be.

Stroking her fingers lightly over the leather cover she looked down at the bible and smiled, a slightly bittersweet smile.

"But the jokes on me, isn't it?” She said into the silence. “His name means, 'God has given,’ he was _always_ yours first. Always what he was. I just couldn't see it. The _most precious thing I’ve ever had,_ but you gave him to me, didn't you Lord?  
_How can I not forgive you for this?_ When you forgave and keep forgiving me _for EVERYTHING,_ " her voice wavered.  
"I'm still hurting so bad, and yet _you_ are the only one that can heal me… I know that…” She bit her lip and smoothed a small hand over the Bible’s cover again.  
“But _I can’t_ … can’t _let_ you touch this, I can’t let it go… _because it hurts so bad. God!_  
How can you be so _patient_ with me?  
I'm using all my resistance on someone I can't resist, I know that, _I know that God_ … And I just want to let go… To, to forgive and accept. But I feel like I'm reaching out into the dark, Father, God!  
_Can't you just pick me up and overwhelm my silly struggles?_ _Help me get past this_ and on with whatever I'm supposed to be doing."

It was an old conversation, an old prayer.  
Today she meant it.  
Tomorrow who could tell?

….

The pain in her head hit like a blow, clamping on like a vice. Blacking out her vision and filling her skull with blinding light.

An inarticulate cry of pain was ripped from her lips.

Migraine.

Curling on her side she buried her face in the pillow, the bible tumbled out of her numb hands and fell to the floor.

….

Disjointed images filled her head.

A drop of blood rolled over her colourless lips and soaked slowly into the pillowcase.

The world was breathing and pain.

Then the pain rolled back, and Michele slipped into a light sleep.


	6. Eating Peaches

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 6: Eating Peaches**

"Mum, M-u-m, MUM!" Michele sat up reluctantly, pushing her glasses back up, and swallowed thickly as she focused on a pair of green eyes; eyes highlighted by blooms of gold and encompassed by blue, bringing to mind summer hills, and fringed by thick sooty eyelashes.

"Up eee go," chirped a singsong toddler voice from closer to mattress height.  
Michele flicked her eyes lower, and meet a set of autumn eyes, flecked with gold, brown and chestnut; they looked back at her, framed by similar lashes, and set in a cheeky face punctuated by dimples.

For a second Michele just looked at her boys, thinking how beautiful those two sets of eyes were.  
Then noted the frown on her older son’s face.

"What's up buttercup?" She queried shooting him a smile.

"There's… there's blood on your face," a frown pinched her older sons forehead, causing her guts to clench.  
She scrubbed her face with the back of her hand and glanced it it furtively.

Thankfully, at that moment the toddler picked up her bible off the floor, causing big brother to squawk in alarm and leap forward.

"No, no that's Mums!" He scolded his rough handed, book loving brother sternly. Rescuing the bible.

"Thanks hon’.” Michele smiled at her oldest. “One day you'll get a big person bible my sweet," she soothed the unhappy toddler "…but right now destruct-o-beast your big brothers right, real bibles are off limits.  
…Now let's go see if your greedy, messy Mummy left any strawberries for you two."

It wasn't a lie, exactly, just an implication that the stuff on her face was strawberry juice, not blood.

"Eeees!" the toddler crowed heading for the fridge.

Her older son lingered a moment longer, worried eyes scanning her face another moment before following his brother.  
There were times when having a smart kid sucked! He wasn't reassured, but maybe she'd introduced enough doubt that he'd worry less.

Grabbing one of the ever-present baby wipes from the pack by the bed, Michele checked her face in the mirror. It wasn't much, nothing to worry about, even if she didn’t usually get nosebleeds.

Scrubbing away the evidence, Michele flipped over her pillow to hide the red drops of accusation which marred the white cotton surface.

The headache was still there, but when wasn't it these days?  
It was manageable and no longer a migraine, after her unscheduled nap.  
She just needed more sleep, less stress and less screen time.

"John' can you get out the bowls," she called, dry swallowing some paracetamol as she walked out to the kitchen.

....

The two boys waited on one side of the kitchen bench with the requested bowls in front of them.  
…

Topping and slicing strawberries with a knife, Michele scraped the berries off the chopping board into the two bowls, added a pinch of icing sugar and two forks.

Just as the two boys trundled off into the lounge carefully holding their bowls of strawberries, Michele’s cellphone began ringing. Checking the caller ID she smiled and tapped it onto speaker phone.

"Hello… is it me you're looking for…?” She sang at the phone.

"Uhm no! I was looking for my other wife," her husband replied cockily from the phone speaker.

Michele snorted. "Yeah, cos you could handle more than one of us," she scoffed. "Are you on your way home?"

"Yeah, boil the jug for coffee, and I'll be there to drink it by the time it's made."

"Excellent!"

"You talking to Peaches again?" She smiled at his tone, interested and somewhat cheeky, but she’d swear there was a tiny bit of jealousy in there too.

"Nope, Peaches is studying like a good girl."

"Yeah, right she is..."

"Well if she isn't, I'm not the reason why she isn't.  
Actually, I've just woken up from a nap. And now the Beasties are feasting on strawberries." She told him, leaving out the migraine and bleeding nose.

"Lucky for some," He responded as the sound of a car came to Michele’s ear.

"A well-rested wife does make it more likely someone, I know, could, get lucky..." She teased.

The front door opened, and in walked the man himself.

"Eeees," announced the toddler, handing his father a half-chewed strawberry.

Michele’s husband thanked the smallest boy solemnly, and popped the strawberry into his mouth; making his older son let out a disgusted shriek of horror and making both parents laugh.

"When your sisters were young, before we lived with Mummy, I would have starved if I didn't eat pre-loved food." Michele’s husband defended, half seriously.

The thought was too much for his autistic highness.  
He fled, shutting and locking his bedroom door to keep all thoughts of pre-loved food at bay.

"Well...."

"Just give him a bit, drink your coffee." Michele advised handing her husband his mug.

Michele’s phone blipped and Phillip Chadwick picked it up, glancing at it before tossing her the phone.  
"You've got a message from SWrocksaltandsilver, which ones that again?" He asked.

"That's the new one, Sam. Says she's a private investigator."

"Really?"

"Hey, I'm not saying she definitely is, it's what she said. Mostly I don't care. It's a distraction, keeps me from writing."

"I don't get what your problem is with writing. You're good at it. Everyone loves the Christmas letters!”

"Peaches is good.... "

"Yeah and you don’t think you’re up to that level, but you're always telling me what a sweet kid she is. Was your story any gorier than hers? I'm sure whatever you wrote wasn't so bad …and yet You aren't a good or nice person, if you write. It doesn’t make much sense in my books.”

"It's just.... different .... okay?! It was like... I don't know... Maybe I will write again, but I just..." She faded off miserably.

He sighed, "Go read your message from the private investigator girl."

It was a kindness, but it was also an escape. Hubby really didn't like or feel comfortable with the whole squishy emotions thing.

Phil pulled a bag out of his pocket, inside was a single peach, he tossed it to her.

He smirked and shot her a leer.

"While you're reading that you can eat Peaches and I can watch..."

Choking at his lurid suggestive tone, Michele shot him a bitch-face to match anything Sam Winchester could muster up.  
"You wish! You disgusting smart-ass male, my Peaches is sweet and innocent. And I-as you oughta be aware-, do not swing that way."

There was a reason she tended to tell her ficfriends, her husband was like a much shorter, less pretty Dean.

Leaving the room, Michele shut the door firmly behind her before biting into the peach. Only Phil couldn’t somehow turn eating fruit into a suggestive act.

  
With the taste of peach still warm from her her husband’s pocket filling her mouth, Michele turned her mind to reading Sam's message.

....

Hey Michele,  
Thanks for writing back, I've never really thought of the Supernatural books as something that help people be brave in hard situations, it’s a bit of a strange idea to me.  
But I think I get it, thinking on it.

I imagine having a child with autism is pretty hard, not that I’ve had anything to do with someone with Autism, or children. But I hardly think struggling with that is stupid.

Yes, what we do is... sometimes rough.  
Do I like my job, heck I don't know! Am I good at it, yes, I think so.  
What we do, it makes a difference in the world, and at the end of the day that’s what matters, isn't it?

Your view of Sam and Dean is definitely different.... so, if you don't mind I’d very much like to keep swapping messages with you, and hang around fanfiction for a bit longer. I swear not to drink the water or write anything!

Today we are driving to LA (Los Angeles) it's about a 20-hour drive, we are following up a case involving an 80’s-rock musician.  
Right now, we are driving and listening to the guy’s music.  
It’s research. Honestly... it's also a great way to torture my smart-ass brother, he hates it! It's the little things in life that make it enjoyable, don’t you think?  
The last time we were in LA was ten years ago, it's bright and flashy and people are fast and fake.  
Does New Zealand have places like that?  
I find I envy your so called dull life, I'm sure it can't be all that dull.  
Any stories of your so called dull life would be gratefully received.

Regards  
-  
Sam

….

Stories of her -so called- dull life gratefully received?!  
How could she resist?  
She knew just the thing.

….

Hi Sam  
If my dull life amuses you, how could I possibly say no?  
In return, send me tales of torturing your brother, (but only gently, please hon! Despite what TOB May have led you to believe I don’t much like other people suffering.) And any tales of flashy, fast and fake American cities and people, also.  
I'm sure we have a bit of that stuff here, but I don’t see it. We are pretty small town… well sort of….

Anyway, I shall provide stories of Chadwick dullness for no extra charge.  
So … recently, the kids and us adult type people of Cassa Chadwick have been playing soccer in the evenings, we have two goal nets and it's pretty much a free for all, as each 'team' tries to score a goal.  
A team consists of me or hubby, one each of our twin 15-year-old daughters and either Mr 2 or Mr autism respectively -And on occasion, the cat- (she usually smooges round my legs while I'm being goalie making it nearly impossible for the opposite team to score.)  
The cat, the 2-year-old and the 8-year-old are mostly hazards to be avoided and handicaps to work around.  
It's pretty mad, there are no real rules.  
Except don't kill each other, try not to break any windows, or hit a car going past on the road… And don't lose the ball.  
I recon the neighbors must hate us some days or think we're trying to kill each other.  
But it's great fun.  
Well anyway, the other morning hubby went out to his car before work and there were frantic calls for assistance.

Turns out a hedgehog had managed to get itself caught in the soccer goal net overnight.  
Driftnet fishing for hedgehogs on the front lawn! Another weird wildlife mishap to add to the seagull.  
So, of course there was major drama and angst to release said hedgehog.  
I don't know if you've heard the joke, "How do hedgehogs have sex?" The answer is… "Very carefully!"  
And that's also how Chadwick's release trapped hedgehogs, snipping carefully and unwinding the string out of the poor things spikes... our soccer net now has a big hole in it.

Thankfully I managed to convince my angsting bumblebee activist that the hedgehog needed to be released back into the wild, else it would probably be wandering round underfoot inside my house, and I’d stand on it in the middle of the night when I get up to Mr 2. I bet hedgehogs are worse than Lego!  
I have photographic proof, which… I could send you.... but because you're a scaredy American and probably won’t Skype or email. You Will Never See IT … *insert teasing smirk here.*

-MC2

….


	7. The Answer is 42

**The Thing You Hate**

  
**Chapter 7: The Answer is 42**

…..

Peaches, 8:05PM  
I have the answer for your predicament

  
The words flashed up in the Skype box with a ding.

  
**8:06PM**  
**What predicament is that?**

Michele typed, feeling a bit like she'd walked into the end of a conversation, again.

  
Peaches, 8:07PM  
Your fanfic angst. You want to write, but you feel guilty for hurting Winchesters.

 **8:10PM**  
**Umm possibly, yeah.... I think...**

Peaches, 8:11PM  
So I have the answer!

 **8:13PM**  
**The answer is 42, Peaches. Ref: HHGTTG and the mice.**

Peaches, 8:14PM  
Nope

Peaches, 8:14PM  
The answer is .... fluff

 **8:17PM**  
**Fluff?**

Peaches 8:20PM  
Yes!! Fluff…  
You know Weechesters doing science projects, cutesy one shots.... like Winchesters building sandcastles.  
You can do it!  
You said your reviewers liked it, didn't they?  
So write the fluff and don't kick them first. Remember what you said about my current fic? That you thought it would go through the mess of the aftermath and make up for what I put Sam through in the previous one. That you liked that idea. So send them to Las Vegas for a week of R&R, wrap them in fluffy kittens or something.

  
Michele blinked, would that work?  
No angst, no molesting mermaids, no blood. Only fluff.

 **8:25PM**  
**Umm it’s definitely an idea… …I'll think about it.**

 **8:26PM**  
**You know …wrapping Dean in fluffy kittens is sort of torturing him though, right?**

The laughing emoji appeared in the Skype box, followed by the devil.

Of course, Peaches did! Michele rolled her eyes wondering if maybe Peaches current fic might not be as healing for Sam as she'd assumed.

Yes, it couldn't hurt to research Las Vegas casinos, could it?... Just to get the feel of it. It didn't mean she would have to write anything, did it? She could sort of see a general plot forming, maybe a competition to see who was the best at blackjack or something....

Looking up news articles about Las Vegas couldn't hurt either, or actually knowing how to play blackjack....  
Research, it didn't mean that she had to write anything.... she was just playing.

…ooo0ooo…

Opening a new Gmail document and typing

"Chapter 1"

In the morning stillness Michele stared at the screen, feeling uncertain suddenly.  
It was like she was standing on the edge of a diving board, looking down, and down, and down to the water far below.

" _Abandon all hope, Ye who enter here."_ The woman murmured quietly to herself.

Rubbing her forehead, Michele tried to massage the ever-present headache away and looked at her clipboard with the beginnings of all her lovely research.  
A baby waiting to be born….

….

As she typed, the pain in Michele’s head began to trickle away.

Words filled the screen so easily, like she was simply uncovering what already existed.  
In a way, she was…. but they weren't the words that she'd expected to write.  
The clipboard of research lay forgotten.

…ooo0ooo…

Frowning, Michele read over the words she'd written feeling numb, comfortably numb, for the first time since she'd stopped writing, "Thing of Beauty."

The ceaseation of pain after so long of living with the constant, nagging pain,was so close to pleasure; how the straight laced little Christian girl imagined 'getting high' must feel.

“ _Wow!”_

Laughing softly, Michele stared at the words in a weird kind of wonder.  
It wasn't even Supernatural fanfiction, well it was, but it wasn't, it was like an elaborate practical joke, mainly the joke was on her, though….wasn't it?

Self-insertion fanfics, were so... blah!… unrealistic … self-indulgent…

Michele counted herself as above stuff like that.  
Those girls trying to live out their fantasies, by writing them. Women imagining Sam or Dean would meet them and fall in l-ove... (cue the sappy music and hearts and flowers....)  
Or worse.... (cue disturbing porn…)

Blerk, blerk, and double blerk.

The few times she'd stumbled on one, Michele had wondered if she should point out that the mortality and injury rate amoungst woman that the Winchester boys got emotionally or physically involved with....  
Even the little sister type characters, like Jo and Charlie hadn't lived long.  
A lot of feminists complained about that slightly problematic feature in Carver Edlund’s books.

No, the Winchester boys could stay in imaginary America.  
Far, far away from her, and her family.  
Thanks all the same!

They could keep all their imaginary monsters with them too.

What she had at home, and in her bed, was more than enough trouble.  
Her over-sexed, smart ass hubby with his silly peach comments, did her head in quite enough!

In fact, if anyone ever bothered to ask her what her fantasy was, it would probably involve a whole week in solitary confinement.  
No one needing her, no one wanting her, no one touching her, and preferably, with no one even looking at her!

_Oh for a mythical 12 hours, of uninterrupted sleep!_

Like the self-insert girl’s fantasies however, it would never happen in this universe.

Again, Michele read through what she'd written with a wry smile.

_Gosh it was complete drivel!_

But it was …..sort of fluffy too, wasn't it?  
And it was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.... so, help her God!

And best of all she could honestly say, " _No Winchesters were harmed in the making of this fanfic."_

Michele was pretty sure she wouldn't get a single review for her trouble.  
But that was okay, you were supposed to write for an audience of one, weren’t you? That’s what Peaches always said.

The feeling of release just from writing, it was enough.

_More than enough._

What would Peaches, Sam and Cat to say, though?

A slightly defiant little smile curved her lips.  
Occasionally, it was better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission, wasn't it?  
Besides …. Maybe… if a few other ficwriters _did_ read it, would they ponder how it might feel, to become someone else’s plaything?  
_Maybe_ reading it would encourage a small moment of interspection for a few others. The pondering of the question of, if writing something, _just because you could,_ needed to be tempered by asking the question of _whether you actually should…._


	8. Fic Purgatory

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 8: Fic Purgatory**

Michele was dumping her Gmail file into a word document, correcting spelling, and adding yet more commas, (she really liked commas for some unknowable reason,) when Peaches popped up into Skype.

Time to confess her treasons she supposed. All her defiant thoughts crumbled, Peaches was her friend and you didn't just use your friend’s actual lives as fuel for bad fanfic, not without giving them a heads up or giving them a right of refusal.

Guilt, it was one of the things she excelled in.

**6:00AM  
Peaches?**

She typed uncertainly cringing slightly.

Peaches, 6:01AM  
Yeah?

**6:02AM  
I've got a confession.... I've been writing**

Peaches, 6:03AM  
Hahaha, knew it!  
There is no escape.

**6:07AM  
** Don't laugh too hard, you don't know what I've done.... it's weird...  
And you're in it. Not by name of course...but it's you.  
It's a sort of self-insert and practical joke, (I hate self inserts, not as much as Destiel and the other "Ships"... but… well it’s up there.) So, it appears mostly the jokes on me.  
And a little on you. 

Peaches, 8:10AM  
I'm in it?

**8:11AM  
Not so funny, now is it?**

Peaches, 8:11AM  
I've never been in a fic before…

**8:13AM  
I'll bin it, I really shouldn't go there again anyway.**

Michele offered, resolutely thinking it was probably for the best.

Her head was beginning to ache again.

Peaches, 8:15AM  
Go on post it!... You know you want to.

**8:17AM  
Really?! -big grin- I DO, really, want to... it was soo good writing again. Even if it's total drivel.**

Peaches, 8:17AM  
Maybe I'll even read it

**8:22AM  
** Typical! You told me you don’t read other people’s work, so I didn’t ask you to read TOB ...it was traumatic for me and I know I whine about it but... (but trauma is your bread and butter) .... TOB has a decent plot at least, I am sort of proud of it for that about it. So, when I had accepted that you would never read anything I write...you go and offer to read, "The Thing You Hate," which is utter rubbish.... it's so unfair!  
But by all means you can read my stuff ... just don't tell me how awful it is unless you want me to delete it for defamation of character. Okay? It’s like .... like Shakespeare judging a third graders poetry or something. Either a high honour or so, shameful its embarrassing. 

Michele wrote with a rueful huff, suddenly feeling lighter than air.

Peaches, 8:23AM  
Post it, come back to the fold, you're not strong enough to give, up and you never really wanted to, stay here in fic purgatory with meee.

The tongue poking emoji popped up.

**8:25AM  
Yes, oh great and high ficwriter, to whom I am only a mere ant, beneath her lofty notice. -salutes jauntily with a grin- I will join you once again in hell adjacent ... just let me grab some borax and a machete....**

....

Just as she finally got through the process of posting, "The Thing You Hate," an email popped up announcing Sam had sent her another message.

Hell! How could she have forgotten about Sam?  
She hadn't just added Sam to her piece of crud she'd actually used her penname and review...  
And Sam was innocent, really innocent, she'd never written a thing in fanfic.

She could take it down, change names or a few details like she'd done with Peaches. She could ask permission... Or just delete it, it wasn't really that good anyway. And if Peaches read it, that would be sort of mortifying.

At that moment, the PC locked up and wouldn't do a thing...

Shoot! What was she going to do now? It would have to stay like it was until techno hubby got home from work, and did whatever magic he usually did to make the obstinate computer behave.

Feeling like the biggest heel in the world, Michele picked up her phone and opened Sam's message.

….

Hey Michele  
Soccer and hedgehogs, normal ‘dull’ life sounds fun.  
The way you write, I can almost see it.  
I played soccer in school for a bit, but we always moved round back then for Dad’s work and my next school didn’t have a team.  
I hated moving all the time as a kid, but now look at me. I've had plenty of chances to settle down, but none of them ever stuck. Guess it gets into your blood, after a while.

So here I am in LA, I guess it's pretty enough, there’s beaches and palm trees and all things Hollywood, but the people seem willing to sell their souls for fame, or something resembling it. Everything just seems a bit unreal and plastic. Like a thin plastic skin stretched over the reality beneath.

I don't know that sending you tales of me tormenting my big brother are going to be forth coming. Right now, he's on my case for drinking water with cucumber slices in it. My brother seems to have a pathological thing against eating healthy, the really unfair thing is he so doesn't look like it. Still, I worry he'll go dying of a heart attack on me one of these days.

We are actually catching up with a couple of colleagues for this case. Their working relationship is really amusing to watch, they are so different, yet not so different, like some bickering old married couple to watch.

By the way I'm not afraid of you. I think you should be more afraid of me.  
You're like some little kid playing in a minefield, even if you are adult, married and have four kids.  
If you weren't so far away from everything I'd probably worry.  
My email is SWrocksaltandsilver at gmail dot com replacing the ats and dots with symbols, (why does fanfiction eat email and web addresses in PM’s it’s really annoying!) it will also work on Skype instant messenger too. So, send me that hedgehog picture, if it actually exists.

-Sam

….

  
Michele bit her lip feeling guilty.  
A little kid playing in a minefield?  
No.... More like a nasty child tossing hand grenades!  
Poor Sam didn't deserve to be the butt of a bad fanfic joke, just because she'd been a little curious.  
Damn! What if Sam saw her fic first? She'd hate her and never talk to her again. Michele glared at the dead PC feeling sick, hating it and herself for causing this trouble.

Well, there was only confession left.

….

Hi Sam  
I'm going to confess something here and you're probably gonna hate me *sigh* you know how I said I was done with writing fanfic... I sort of slipped and wrote something. The thing is.... you're sort of in it... Umm… and then I posted it without thinking and now I can't delete it because our PC died..... and I'm so sorry. None of that's an excuse... it's like saying, "I just accidentally had sex with that person." There's a process to get there and choices along the line... Hell I’m a crap friend and I'll understand if you never want to talk to me again, *sad eyes* I'll take it down if you want me to, as soon as I get the PC working, honest."

Michele looked at her headlong rush of apologetic words, there needed to be something more.  
Carefully she typed in her email address and Skype contact details. With a suggestion Sam contact her like that if she wanted to maintain contact. And a hope that Sam had a nice life out there in the real world otherwise.

With a sigh, Michele sent the message off into the void.


	9. Words as Pain Relief

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 9: Words as Pain Relief**

Sam’s reply came by email a few hours later.

…..

Michele,

Relax, its ok.  
Let's just say I'm not offended. I’ve definitely had worse said about me, than ‘odd but kind of nice.’  
Did those scenes at the duck pond happen, they did, didn’t they?  
TBH your emails and stories have been kind of an escape for me today.  
I’ve seen some pretty dark stuff with work lately.  
The things people do for love or obsession, they can be awful.  
I should be used to it by now, but I'm not.  
I find your stories fascinating, but also… I’m not sure how to express it… proof that not everything in this world is dark?

Of course I don’t hate you, I’ve met people worthy of hatred and you, Michele, are quite literally, not even in the same continent as them.  
Write what you need.  
Besides, You still owe me that photo of your hedgehog.

-Sam

….

Michele read through Sam's email a dozen times feeling like laughing and crying all at once.

Forgiveness and relief were heady things.

She'd always been fairly empathetic and it was almost she could feel the pain buried in Sam's words, what was she looking at over there in America? Michele couldn't really imagine, but between the words there was a feeling ...that made Michele’s heart sad.

Her life had been so sheltered, the worst things that had happened to her were miscarrying a child, after 3 months of puking, and her sons decent into autism.  
The bad stuff of the world had always just sort of sidestepped her. It accounted for her blithe confidence... and the fact that she'd been such a pathetic baby over the whole autism thing.

Sam seemed like a good person, Michele wanted to hug her, and sit her down, get her a coffee, then some good chocolate cake, like she’d do for any of her friend.

None of which she could do for someone on the other side of the world.

She could write though.

“ _Proof that not everything in this world has to be dark.”_

The story of Sam and Dean Winchester had been _her_ morphine, _her_ light in a dark time, _could_ she do the same thing for Sam?  
Her phone blipped a notification, it was the bible app with today's verse,

" _Gracious words are like a honeycomb, sweetness to the soul and health to the body.  
Proverbs 16:24 ESV"_

A breathed small laugh, smiling wryly.

"Enough already! I do get the point, no need to nag," she murmured. Feeling more in touch with God than she'd felt for an age.

Another bible reference flitted through her mind, to do with queen Esther. _‘For such a time as this...’_ or something. Michele was a believer in the idea that sometimes you got a job laid at your feet. When it did, you ought to pick it up, and do it. Do your part to make lives round you better, if you could  
  
….

Dearest Darling Sam

Thank you so much!  
Your forgiveness is the sweetest thing in the world! Your permission is a responsibility I won't take lightly. And your friendship is a treasure!

Am I laying it on too thick? *wide grin* … Nahhh!

.... So in today’s update I shall tell you two tales, both from the realm of the duck pond, where I spend large amounts of time with Mr 2, (please find photographic proof attached.) So anyway, today we went to the duck pond again and saw a man taking a small pony for a walk.  
From a distance, I thought it was a just large dog and I was like, "look that dog’s big enough for you to ride Chris," to Mr 2 .... then they got closer, and I realized it was a pony.

It's not the weirdest thing I've seen, one day we were going on a family bush walk up to a local water reservoir dam and met a family going the other way, taking their two dogs and pet goat for a walk.  
Speaking of goats, not so long ago there was a news story about the police here having to taser a goat; it was fearl, had been attacked by a dog and had gone a bit nuts... somehow it ended up inside a building menacing people, (they weren’t clear about how that happened...) so anyway the police were called, (because in NZ our police get calls to deal with insane goats,) maybe because we don't have enough insane people to keep them busy? I dunno, maybe there’s a flowchart somewhere that goes: cat up a tree —>call a firefighter: insane goat—>call the police ...  
Anyway, because our normal police don't carry guns, (I bet _that's_ a weird thought to an American,) they ended up having to taser the crazed goat.  
The local radio stations had an absolute ball with it, they even faked a recording of the incident and called the police for comment.  
The bumblebee activist, of course, was horrified that anyone would be _so mean_ to a goat.  
But having seen a adult male billygoat, I don’t blame the police for wanting to stay at arms length. One isn’t something I’d want to tangle with close! They stink for one thing, due to a rather unsavoury habit of peeing on themselves to attract lady goats. See, disturbing things done for love is a cross species madness Sam not just a human one. (Dunno if that makes you feel better or worse, but give me some points for trying?) 

The second occurrence was that Mr 2 fell in the duck pond! It was bound to happen, the kid’s a bit of a domino, the world’s biggest klutz and alas! he has no fear, (maybe he gets that last bit from his mum, though reality is I have lots of fears.)  
We've done really well getting him to over 2 without a dunking in the Duck pond, honestly.  
But all morning I'd been thinking, "he’s going to fall in," I could practically see it in my mind’s eye.  
Then, I glanced away .... and in he goes! Splosh!  
He went right under, but I fished him out in moments, I even took an aftermath photo. (please find attached,) I ended up having to strip him off and put him in his car seat wearing only a nappy. He was slimy, and stinky! Yetch duckpond water is smells! Not as bad as randy Billygoats .... but it’s bad!  
First thing I did when we got home was bath him!

Anyway, please find attached photos, me and hubby, the kids, hedgehog, pony going walkies, ducks and dunked child … the works.

  
Consider it repayment for forgiveness, and please don't feel pressured to reciprocate.  
In reality, I sort of like you being a mystery, one that I have to work to decypher.  
I imagine you as tall, and steely eyed, with a ponytail and a kick ass attitude. Like some PI on a TV show, *laughter* yeah, I know, silly eh?  
... But I was a short, kind of plain looking brunette lab-tech with freckles and glasses, and now I'm a little wifee and Mum who bakes biscuits and visits duckponds.  
I think I look like what I am, small but comfortable, and nothing to write home about…. stereotypes have to come from somewhere…. Or they wouldn’t be stereotypes.

-MC2


	10. Tasering Goats

**The Thing You Hate**

  
**Chapter 10: Tasering Goats**

When Michele's phone announced a message shortly after, she was expecting it to be Sam, Peaches... or Cat ....

Instead it was a review.

Michele raised her eyebrows in surprise, a review on "The Thing You Hate" .....?! Sam, and probably Peaches had obviously read it, but for both of them that was a little different, wasn't it?  
She doubted either would review.

Ohhhh, it was from the reviewer she'd always mentally called, "The smartest kid in the room." Whoever they were, they'd caught on quickly to clues in TOB in a way that was rather, 'Sam Winchester'.  
There'd also been a few times when writing, "Thing of Beauty" had been really hard, and it was The smartest kid’s reviews and PMs that had been a hand in the darkness.

Whoever that reviewer was, she'd missed him or her. You weren't supposed to have favourites in parenting, and Michele suspected you weren't supposed to have favourites with reviewers, but .... okay she did... after all, that's how her collection began, wasn't it?  
She wondered what the faceless reviewer somewhere out there, had thought about TTYH.  
It was drivel and very different from TOB, she hoped her favourite reviewer wasn't disappointed.  
There were no puzzles here for ‘The smartest kid’ to work out, unless you considered good ol’ plain, everyday life a puzzle, which it often was, in Michele’s books.

Michele figured she could hand out imaginary cyber-chocolatefish to anyone who called her on the blinding ridiculous amount of truth she was chucking out there, labelled as fiction.

…ooo0ooo…

That night, Michele had disturbing dreams of fear, crowds and loud music.  
When her husband finally shook her awake her nose was bleeding, and her head was pounding enough to make her want to cry.  
Apparently, she'd been talking in her sleep.

_"We're not winning, we're just losing slow."_

Her husbands worried looks and the way the words made her shiver with dread when Phil said them, made Michele feel like the dream… hadn't just been one of those run of the mill, ‘I’m lost in a crowded place and can’t find Johnny,’ dreams.

Covering best she could, she made a show of laughing at the whole thing, but underneath she felt a wave of uneasiness rise.

Dreams weren't always simple dreams, over her youth and childhood she'd had several dreams that had turned out to be 'true' after a fashion.  
Those dreams and a few other things accounted for her whole faith in God and something bigger thing. Some people wanted to believe.... but for her it was a trifle more.... grudging. Less waffling adoration. More ... ’fine, can we just get on with this?’

Some people said you had to check your brain in at the door to believe in God. Unfortunately, she'd often felt it was more like having to check her brain at the door, _to ignore Him._

Mostly though, a dream, whether it was an inscrutable thing made of your brain chewing over the images and thoughts of the day; or something that was more 'prophetic' in nature, mostly a dream was of no use in real life.

Michele had often resented that fact.

They never came with useful explanations and you spent years sometimes, wondering what they had really meant.

So, she had a box in her head, much like the one she'd said Dean Winchester had in his, in TOB.  
Hers wasn't labelled quite the same, (because she was a good girl who didn't swear,) maybe something along the lines of, "Things I have no control over, so I'm ignoring them."  
Every few days she tried to shove her sons Autism in the box, but it didn't fit and always came crawling out again.

The inexplicable things like the dreams.... they mostly sat quietly, once they were shoved in the box.

…ooo0ooo…

The next morning Michele found herself writing Chapters 2 and 3 in the same head long rush as the previous chapter, and she felt the same uncertain bemusement with what found its way onto the page and screen.

Every time she posted a chapter, it seemed she dug the hole deeper, it was both funny and awful in equal measure; Peaches was right she'd gone to purgatory and there was no escape.

There was a dreadful part of her that actually wanted to call Peaches and Sam's bluff, if things continued one of them would surely call uncle on the whole thing and demand she delete it.

......

Hi Michele

Yes, it was a trifle thick, but it made me smile.  
As did the goat Tasering story. I really thought that was just one big fish story, but then I used my detective skills and found a news article.  
How short are you? And are you a hobbit? It may be the LOTR connection but I can imagine you and your family fitting right in on the Shire.  
We are finished in LA, for now, it wasn't exactly a win, but for now, the case is closed. That's as good as it will get, I suppose. I find myself waiting curiously for the next chapter of your story.  
And your next tale of life in New Zealand, thanks for the photos, you and your family look happy. The hedgehog looks real. That's a lot of ducks. And Mr 2 looks rather shocked.   
I'll leave you with your stereotypical image of me for now.  
I am tall, taller than my 'big' brother, actually. What can I say he's short and bossy. Maybe he'd have grown more if he ate his vegetables. Not that it's ever slowed him down with women any, he's always on my case to hook up with someone. *sigh*  
I appear to be picking up some of your writing habits, how disturbing. Next thing I'll be out feeding ducks and tasering goats.

-Sam

….

A brother that was a bit of a hound-dog and didn't eat properly. That really sounded like Sam needed to expose her short, bossy brother to the, "fruit website,” Phil had found last week.

….

Hiya Sam  
  
I have another story for you, I really do have a fanfic friend named after a fruit, and we do talk on Skype.  
I also have a hubby that's an incorrigible smart ass.  
Hubby bless him doesn't really get the whole, 'Supernatural' thing, somewhere in the back of his head I think he suspects I think about Sam and Dean the way he thinks about Angelina Jollie… I don't by the way. *laughter.*  
There's this quote in a movie called, "Bigfish" that goes along the lines of, "to my dad there were only ever two women. My mother and everyone else." It describes me I guess. The only guy I've ever really 'seen' like that is Phil, my annoying, smart ass, cheeky, wonderful husband. Until I met him I dated a bit, but none of those guys felt … I dunno…. I guess there’s like and want… Phil got me to want, and now that position in my head is all filled up with him.

But anyway, Phil likes to be a hound-dog or at least pretend to be one, I wouldn’t have married him if he was one of those guys, trust me.  
But like every guy he has fantasies. One day he was teasing me about Peaches, guys and their stupid fantasies of two girls together (the "eating Peaches" jokes do my head in, grrr! Last week he made desert, which was tinned peaches and whipped cream with chocolate sauce, then sat there watching me really intently, and I realised he was sitting there watching me eat Peaches, and "that look" on his face clicked, which of course made me choke and blush and the kids were like, “why are you all red Mum?” and Phil’s sitting there smirking at me, so I threw a pillow at him.) He just does it to wind me up!  
…Anyway, somehow while he was finding new and different ways to mortify me with inappropriate sexual innuendo concerning "Peaches," he found the "fruit website" which details the sexual advantageousness of all these fruits and vegetables.  
Suddenly hubby is buying and feeding me, and himself all these new fruits and vegetables.  
It's equal parts funny and mortifying. I don't know if there's anything to the purported properties, but I guess it keeps us healthy, and keeps him amused.  
I do have a sense of humour, so really I’m amused by it too.

So, I find myself thinking, a certain type of guy who doesn't eat enough fruit and vegetables could have his attitude changed by such an educational website, don't ya think? Especially if said brother didn't know his little sister meant him to see it.  
I'll attach the link, shall I? *Giggles,* us kid sisters have to stick together and look after our annoying men folk, by whatever slightly underhanded means we have.  
I'll also attach the next chapters of TTYH for your perusal.  
Let me know if your brother has an attitude change.

*Hugs*

P.S: Both hubby (hubby's only a little taller than me) and I could have auditioned to be extra hobbits for LOTR’s I’m 5’1”, but I was locked in a high security lab that day, protecting NZs biosecurity. So alas, I missed my chance to be third hobbit from the right.

-MC2


	11. Fruit and Hidden Treasures

**The Thing You Hate**

  
**Chapter 11: Fruit and Hidden Treasures**

Dean Winchester leaned against the doorjamb with his arms crossed, studying his younger brother.

Sam was acting squirrely.

Since when did research make his little brother laugh, or even smile?  
Sam was acting practically bipolar, ever since his time as Toni Bevells unwilling guest, Sam's default setting was intense and slightly angsty.

Montauk hadn't helped things either.

Neither one of them were really sure what to do with that one.

But now, out of the blue, for whole minutes at a time, Sam would be practically happy, for no reason Dean could see.  
It wasn't that Dean didn't like the lightening of his brother’s angst, but... Sammy was behaving like he had a secret.  
Sam didn't have to tell him every freakin' thing but Dean had learned by bitter experience that Sam keeping secrets could be a hugely bad thing.

"Something interesting?" He growled entering the room.

Sam looked up flashing him a dimpled grin and swiped his hair back. "Nah, nothing, I need a break, want a beer?"

Dean raised his eyebrow. "Bit early for you, isn't it?"

"Yeah, yeah, coffee then?" Sam got up and walked off.

Dean watched his brother walk away with narrowed green eyes.  
Something was not right with Sammy, and he Dean was gonna work out what.

Looking over his shoulder, Dean ambled nonchalantly over to the laptop.  
Lately Sam had put a password on his laptop and usually locked it when he left it, complaining Dean kept filling it with porn.

This time Sam had left it unlocked.

" _Score_!" Dean muttered to himself and studied the web-page Sammy had been looking at.

Dean rubbed absent minded lay at the back of his neck, feeling puzzled.  
This _definitely_ wasn't part of a search for Lucifer’s current vessel. A website about the positive qualities of fruits and vegetables for sexual prowess?  
Why the freaking hell was Sammy reading up on this?  
Fascinated despite himself, Dean dived deeper and began reading.  
Maybe there were reasons for Sam's vegesauras tendencies his older brother had never considered before?

A sound from the hallway brought Dean back to himself.

Quickly, closing everything and covering his tracks, Dean picked up one of the weapons from the display racks scattered about the library, and pretended interest.

Sam returned with two coffees and handed him one.

"We need to go on a supply run." Sam advised him looking irritated.

"Awesome, I'm goin’ stir crazy. Needta get outta here." He replied taking a few gulps of coffee.

Sam was already seated back at the laptop scanning news websites again, he just grunted, eyes on the screen, fingers flying.

"Tell ya what, I'll go take Baby for a run, you can stay here and geek it up like a good Bitch."

"Whatever. Jerk,” Sam muttered, “try buying something healthy for me along with your usual heart attack invites." distractedly waving him off.

Favoring his brother with a sly grin, Dean grabbed his jacket. "Sure thing Sammy."

…ooo0ooo…

Dear Michele

You're a genius! Today my brother went shopping and bought actual fruit and vegetables. Then he made us both fruit salad. Fruit salad! With real fruit. It was all I could do not to choke on it.  
Thanks though. I can't remember the last time I saw him eat fruit that wasn't part of a pie.

-Sam

.....

Michele grinned, what could she say ten years of marriage and husband management had taught her a bit about manipulating men for their own benefit, it was always good to hand on the skills to another woman.

….

Hiya Sam

Glad it helped, just be careful not to let on or laugh at him over it.  
Men can be so fragile and sensitive, they call us the weaker sex but it's just not true.

Today I shall regale you with a tale of mystery and revelation.

The mystery of the stones....

Lately, in the course of my travels with kiddies to local parks I have noticed...  
The stones.  
They hide in odd nooks and crannies, and I have been noticing them for weeks.  
They are painted bright colours with pictures or patterns on them.  
A few days ago, I took Mr 2 to the park to feed the ducks at a small creek there, and play at the little park on the other side of the footbridge. The first one was sitting on a stump by the creek, looking like a large yellow and black toad, odd thinks I and took a photo of it (as always find attached) Next I noticed a whole "family" sitting by a tree trunk and again snapped a photo. Then I spied the last one sitting on a post. Smiling to myself, at the odd and charming finds I took a third, and took Mr 2 off to play on the slide.  
Shortly after, a family appeared and the kids scattered and began searching everywhere like kids at an Easter hunt. Shortly after, our little stoney friends were found with shouts of joy and much giggling, the parents rounded up all the rocks onto the picnic table and took photos of them, then sent the kids off to hide them again. Approaching the parents, I queried about what the story was. Apparently, the rocks are "a thing."

People throughout New Zealand are painting them and hiding them for others to find and shifting them all around the place in parks and public spaces. Even taking them to other towns.  
The rocks even have a series of Facebook pages apparently, where people post photos and clues.

<https://www.newshub.co.nz/home/new-zealand/2017/01/rock-hunting-facebook-groups-spreading-around-new-zealand.html>

  
The whole thing just tickles me a little. People hiding little treasures to make a stranger’s day.

I know, you sometimes see the darker stuff in the world Sam, but the lesson is, that if you look, there are also hidden treasures out there; be it a painted stones, the glint of sunshine off water, or a brother being manipulated into eating fruit.  
*hugs*

-MC2


	12. Reading Fanfiction

**The Thing You Hate**

  
**Chapter 12: Reading Fanfiction**

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"If you wanted the car or anythin', or uhhh time out alone..."

Sam frowned at his brother in puzzlement. "Uh, I'm good Dean. We're sorta busy here."

His brother gave him a slightly sideways uncomfortable glance. "It's just, if you wanted to hook up with someone you don't have to get permission, just go. Or if you... Uhh …need to talk…" Dean pursed his lips like he'd tasted something sour, "about any issues you're having..."

The longer Dean talked the more lost Sam felt.

"I'm good Dean..." then the penny dropped. He studied his older sibling’s earnest expression and unusual discomfort trying not to laugh.

"This is about that website, isn't it? That wasn't for me, that was for you."

Dean looked shocked, his face seem to drain of color and two bright patches flared in his cheeks; emotions flashed across his face in quick succession, his mouth opened and shut. But no words came out.

"For _me_?" His brother finally rasped.

"Uh, yeah." Then Sam's brain finally caught up with where his brother's mind had gone, "no... not for… that... I didn't mean ... aww crap man! It was just a joke... I wasn't implying that you had issues... it was just sisters looking out for their big brothers. Getting them to eat healthy."

Dean was still standing there looking at him, his mouth working soundlessly like a slow reader following a particularly challenging bit of text.

"Sisters? You had a sex-change I'm unaware of?"

"No, you Jerk, she just thinks I'm a girl."

"She?"

" _Shit!"_

"Who's ' _she_ ' and why does she think you're a girl, Sam?"

"Fuck, leave it alone Dean, it's none of your business." Sam went to leave, but his brother blocked him.

"Sam! _What the hell!_ Every time some 'she' isn't my business it kicks us in the in the ass.  
We're having this out now."

Sam winced, his face screwed up looking defeated, not angry or defensive exactly. Just kicked, like a dog that had shat on the rug and been caught.

"It's not _like that._..okay?" Sam slumped into a chair, hands dangling between his knees looking small.

"Tell me, how it is, then..."

Sam swallowed, cringing, Labrador eyes peering out from behind a curtain of hair.

"You know fanfiction...."

"Becky?! **_Becky?!._**.. Oh, crap Sammy tell me ' _she's' not Becky Rosen."_

"NO! _What do you take me for?"_

"Right now, Sammy, I ain't answerin'. Keep talking before I slap the binding cuffs on you and drag your ass down to the dungeon."

"De-an!"

"Talk Sam! _I'm this close_."

With a huff of exasperation, Sam raked back his hair.

"Occasionally I..." Sam bit his lip, "Ahh, look at fanfiction, out of uhh... curiosity..."

Dean snorted in irritation, his face screwed up to rival one of Sam's best 'bitchfaces.' But waved his brother on, without one of his usual diatribes, on exactly what Dean Winchester thought of fanfiction and the many ships that sailed those murky seas.

"And I found this... story… called … "Thing of Beauty." Sam's fingers tapped across the keyboard bringing up the story, "read it Dean."

"Sam, I really don't want to read some chicks fantasies about you."

"Just, just read it, okay!"

Sighing like a kid with a plate full of Brussels sprouts in snail sauce, who couldn’t leave the table until the plate was cleared. Dean began to read.

.......

Sam watched his brother's face as he read, it didn't take more than a few lines for Dean’s face too lose that put-upon look and grow intense.

Once he looked up to meet his brother's eyes. But only for a moment, before being drawn back in to the words on the screen.

After a few minutes, Sam went back to his research and his brother didn't object.

Occasionally, Sam could feel Dean’s eyes return to him in speculation, he wondered uncomfortably what his brother was reading, and what he was thinking. But did his best to ignore the occasional scrutiny. It wasn't the first time their lives had been laid bare. And Sam now was pretty certain it wouldn't be the last.

Finally, Dean shut the laptop decisively.

"I need a drink," he muttered rubbing the back of his neck and stretching after sitting still so long.

"Dean..."

"Just... just give me a bit, Sam." Dean’s green eyes looked tired.

Sam watched his brother walk away from him. Wanted to say something but wasn’t sure what, sat chewing on the inside of his lip feeling a bit like he'd felt as a kid, finding an abandoned puppy in the rain.

"Can I keep it?" Was going to get the answer. "No!" but he just wanted, something ..... that approached normal.


	13. Normal

**The Thing You Hate**

  
**Chapter 13: Normal**

Dean returned with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. Plonking one by Sam's elbow he half-filled it, then filled his own to the brim and took a deep gulp.  
He glared at his brother until he took a sip.

"So, what are we looking at? Special kid or prophet…?"

"I..." Sam took another mouthful of whiskey trying to think of how to explain, while his brother continued glaring at him.

"You haven't asked?"

One side of Sam's mouth quirked sideways a trifle apologetically but he didn't answer. He just met his brother's eyes his jaw clenched and forehead creased.

Dean snorted infuriated and took another gulp of whiskey. "Help me out here Sam, I'm tryin' to understand."

His little brother slumped slightly and huffed. "I found the story about a week before Lucifer-Vince surfaced in LA and sent her a message, I really meant to find out Dean, but then we started talking and..."

"So, you have a thing for her?"

"No!" Sam looked horrified, "she's married, Dean!"

"And thinks you're a girl too apparently... ?"

"That too," a tentative smile faltered on the younger Winchesters lips for a moment.

"I still don't get it."

Sam shrugged and opened a folder of emails and pushed the laptop in front of his brother.

…ooo0ooo…

Michele was at the bench slicing fruit and vegetables when her husband walked in.

"Peaches thinks chicken nuggets constitutes a meal," she informed her husband in disgust, waving her hand irritably at the phone beside her chopping board.

"This coming from the girl that survived on soup, toast and yogurt at her age." Her husband smiled. "We saved you from yourself."

"With your pathetic need for mothering, and I don't just mean the girls... Nothing like looking after someone else to make you look after yourself." Michele conceded pointing a carrot.

With a grin, the man grabbed her hand trapping the carrot and bit the end off.

"Oi! _If his highness sees that, he won't eat anything for fear of father germ contamination_ ," she whispered, looking worriedly towards her son’s bedroom.  
Chopping the bitten end off the carrot she handed it to him along with 4 other bits of uncontaminated raw carrot. "Go give those to your kids. Coffee?"

Looking down at the phone she read Peaches most recent comment.

…

Peaches, 5:57PM  
I've got another one-shot idea. The more I study the more ideas I get for stories. It's such a pain.

**5:59PM  
Go have a piece of fruit and go to bed. Write the idea down and tell it to take a number. You can tease me with your idea tomorrow, genius child.**

The poking tongue emoji appeared.

…

" _Peaches won't go to bed._ " Michele fake whined to the husband when he returned.

"Send her a photo of what you've done to one of her relatives with that knife, that'll sort her out."

"It's an orange, not a peach... it is an American though," Michele grinned holding up a bit of skin with a sticker on it, "you know if I add some blueberries and watermelon we can really 'eat a rainbow.' Peaches thinks it's weird that I add so much fruit to the salad."

"You're _such_ a fruit and vegetable crusader.  
_Ohhh look_ you're going to feed me _celery_. Kids, early night tonight!"

A chorus of unhappy squeals came from the lounge, prompting the mother of the house to glare angrily at the father.

"Dad's joking." She soothed."That blasted website makes you think everything I feed you is a come on! You know it was probably just written by the vege-growers association to boost sales."

"And yet you sent it to the private investigator."

"That was to make Sam laugh. Besides, if it got her brother to eat more fruit, surely that makes everyone happy." She answered.

…ooo0ooo…

Dean was not happy, Dean was far from happy. Dean could be described as thoroughly pissed.

"Sam, what the hell have you been thinking!"

"I..."

"Would you like a recap of names? Let's start with Kevin, shall we? Or maybe Charlie?"

"Dean..."

"Okay, _so what_ if she _is_ a prophet, they have nice loooonnngg life expectancies when they get mixed up with us, don't they?!  
She has a husband, a husband and four fucking kids! _Four of them!_ And one of them’s freaking _autistic_. Sam, I just can't believe you!”

"I thought she could be useful..."

"Useful! Useful?! use-ful for what huh? Maybe if we have to deal with a plague of hedgehogs? Or need some information on how to feed ducks? What the hell could Mrs frickin’ Hobbit _be useful_ for?"

Sam glared back at his brother in silence.

"Sam." Dean exhaled deeply. "Dad taught us better than this, I thought.... I'd taught  
you better than this."

"She's on the _other side of the world_ Dean, and it's not like that."

"Then, how is it?"

"You wouldn't understand...."

"I'm _tryin’ to,_ really! I'm tryin’ to."

"I know we are never going to have normal, _**never**_!" Sam spat the word angrily, "but somehow… knowing it's _out there._... hearing about it... helps."

The fury drained from Dean, looking at his brother's scrunched face and brimming hazel eyes.

"Aww crap, Sam!" Dean rubbed his own eyes before gripping his brother's shoulder. " _Maybe_ , I get it okay, but you were right, she's a kid in a minefield. If any of the evil crap that follows us, finds her... She's, she's just _meat_. You see that right? You get that, _don't you Sammy?"_

Sam snorted and raked his fingers through his hair angrily. "She was on bloody fanfiction like shark bait, _bleeding in the water,_ long before I noticed her, Dean." Grasping his glass, he downed half of it.

"Gotta hand it to Chuck, what better place to hide a prophet’s writing than in with all the rest of the crap on fan fiction ... it’s sort of a miracle you noticed it." Dean mused sipping his whiskey.


	14. Visions of Horror

**The Thing You Hate**

  
**Chapter 14: Visions of Horror**

  
**Authors note: this chapter contains graphic violence.**  
I'm so, so sorry. For two days, I have fought it, but... I just can't.  
I know it's unfair, I lured you in with duckponds, hedgehogs, dimpled toddlers and small black cats.  
I'm sorry.  
Take heart in the fact, you, at least, _you_ can avert your eyes and skate unseeing over the bit in italics. For me it was in my head. It continues to be in my head. Nothing changes that, so we press on because there is no turning back.

...............

To have no eyes to close, no face to turn away, no voice to argue and no hands to help.

To experience every moment and see everything from infinite angles.

_To smell the blood and gore as it splatters and slowly drips down, to almost taste the smells._

_The shit and piss and puke that a body gives up as it dies in violence._

_To hear the impacts, the violations and inhuman cries of pain._

To have no choice and no escape from the experience, held beyond enduring.

  
Then to be spat out, to be left washed up, in your own bed.

Next to the tender breathing of your small child and husband as if the world was still a normal sane gentle thing.

Michele trembled, paralysed with shock, horror and grief.

Her heart lurched and drummed, breath stuttering in a chest and rasping through a throat that should be shredded with shrieks, but was made mute by the sheer volume of horror she had witnessed.

Silent tears leaked from her wide eyes, she stared into the dark, beyond seeing. Eyes still seeing the action play out.

***

  
_A terrified dark-haired man dressed in black, both legs shattered, and bent unnaturally, trying to claw his way across the wooden floor, away from a looming figure in red.  
Blood, prayers and pleas for mercy drooling along with strings of vomit from his gasping mouth._

_A blonde middle aged nun thrown down the stairs like a rag doll._

_Her skull caving in from the impact at the bottom, with a sound unsettlingly like a dropped pumpkin._  
Her pale grey eyes starring blindly in death.  
Wooden rosary beads, broken and scattered rolling through her clotting blood and brain matter, driven by the scuff of a careless foot.

 _A young priest pinned against the wall by an invisible force, jaw clamped shut and eyes bulging. A broken flag pole thrust through his heaving chest, leaving him hanging there like a coat on a hook._  
Yet somehow, he had been alive and suffering still. His feet kicking jerkily, while piteous whines and whimpers came from a mouth filled with blood... he took an age die, gasping hitching breaths that finally faded to nothing.  
.  
.  
.  
.

Most people are not made to encompass such things, to suffer and witness suffering without some damage.

But, it seems suffering, is a sliding rule, what you can endure varies hugely.  
For each person, there is one thing they can go beyond endurance for.  
For Dean Winchester, time and time again that has proven to be his little brother, Sam.  
For Michele, the question was answered by the half heard cry of, "Mum," from across the hallway.

Legs that surely couldn't move, took her to his bedside.

Hands that had been trembling like leaves, stroked with quiet reassurance through her sons sleep tousled hair. And her voice, which she thought muted by horror; murmured soft words of comfort.

A writer once wrote of the danger of having children, that you tear a piece of your heart out and let it walk around away from you, unprotected. It is a stunning risk, a folly of love.

But on occasions that small piece of your heart, can be the only piece of you left untouched - And somehow it can seed the reconstruction of you as a whole.

What you can never do for yourself, you can do for that other. - Wrapping yourself protectively around something precious and fragile, can make you strong.

So, that night it wasn't her strength that gave Michele comfort.

It was her weakness. A son that others saw daily as a burden, flawed and broken.

...ooo0ooo...

It seemed that Sam and Dean Winchester were in an impossible situation.  
Sam was right. He hadn't caused the situation, he'd just stumbled on it.

Dean was even willing to concede the point. What to do about it though, that didn't seem to have an easy answer.

  
Dean took another gulp of whiskey, thinking that his real objection was that Sam might be getting attached to yet another thing or person he was surely going to lose.

Sam just couldn't roll with the hits anymore, he'd seen it ever since Sam had released the Darkness. His new crusade to do more good than harm, to save not just as many as possible, but everyone. It was a battle his baby brother couldn't win.

But it was too late, wasn't it? Frickin’ Mrs Hobbit with her menagerie of children, stories of animal adventures and mishaps - What ever happened to her, Sam was going to care.  
The freaking kick it in the pants truth was, Dean could feel himself caring too.

Because somewhere half a world away someone had reached out to his kid brother, and in a very naive way tried to shine a light into the darkness of being a Winchester for him, to give him a taste of normal that he, Dean had never been able to give him... except by letting him walk away to Stanford.

The problem was, normal just didn't survive Winchester gravity, it got sucked in and eaten alive.

And yet, Sam; he just couldn't leave normal alone.

All the talk of the last few hours had wound down to a stalemate, neither of them was sure how to proceed, so by mutual unspoken consent they were doing nothing and trying to ignore the whole issue.

Sam was back to scanning news websites.

Dean was alternating between playing word with friends against Mom (and losing majorly,) attempting to help his brother with research - But mostly just irritating him with random pacing, second grade sound effects fit for a kid waiting in line at the bank, huffs, and bouncing his right leg restlessly on the ball of his foot.

"Dean, go make food or something." Sam finally flared, snapping in irritation.

"Fine, but I'm not makin' you anymore fruit salad, ya long haired emo wannabe chick."

"Just go Dean, there are too many weapons in here for me to avoid killing you much longer!"

"Like you could." His older brother snarked stalking out.

…..

  
"I may have a hit,” Sam advised his brother when he returned with food, (which included some lonely looking fruit perched on the side.)

"Billionaire philanthropist and CEO of several major corporations Wallace Parker.  
He was found dead in his office late Tuesday night, his body was reportedly heavily damaged by an explosion, but the building was undamaged and one witness is reported as saying his eyes were burned out."

"Definitely sounds like our thing." Dean agreed. "But first eat your fruit Sammy, never know when an opportunity to get laid might present itself. Maybe if you get laid, you won’t need to swap recipes on line with Hobbits.”

Sam chucked the fruit at his brother's head, but Dean simply caught it and handed it back with a shit eating grin.


	15. Ouroborus

**The Thing You Hate**

  
**Chapter 15: Ouroborus**

It was Saturday morning, Michele lay curled on her side, eyes closed, pretending to sleep while her mind still worried and tore at the dream from the previous night.  
What kind of freaky psychological stuff was going on in her head?  
A cold shudder ran through her body, she had always thought she was a fairly good person, writing ‘Thing of Beauty,’ had shaken her view of that a bit, sure.  
But last night’s little horror show.... that made her wonder whether she knew herself at all.  
Why was her subconscious graphically slaughtered catholic nuns and priests, it was raw, sick and twisted.  
A tear tracked its silent way down her cold cheek as another wave of self-loathing lapped over her as she pondered the state of her faith in the past few years.   
Surely the symbolism of nuns and priests being murdered meant something awful about her inner workings.

Or was there something wrong with her brain?  
The migraines, the nose bleeds, writing stuff in an almost fugue like state; words she barely recognised upon rereading, yet knew as her life…. and now there were these dreams.

Ugh, the dreams!

There _had_ to be something wrong with her.

A brain tumour, or series of micro strokes? Maybe a prion disease, like Mad-cow forming mats of infective proteins, eating away at her brain and rational thought? Some kind of chemical poisoning? An unknown parasite or microorganism she’d been exposed to somehow, years ago, while working in the lab? There _were_ a lot of possible choices.

Michele took a shaky breath and bit her lip.  
She just wanted to curl into a ball and push all the frightening thoughts into a box and ignore them.

But she was an adult and she had responsibilities, she couldn't afford ... she couldn't afford to let her family down.

So, she needed to get checked out; quietly.

  
_It’s not keeping secrets if there's nothing to tell,_ she told herself.

It was just stopping her family worrying, unnecessarily.  
It could be nothing, _probably was_ nothing…

 _But what if it wasn't nothing?_ She'd had friends her age die of cancer.  
Wryly she remembered the MEM she'd seen somewhere, "Parents of kids with autism be like 'I can't die, not even of old age, at 190.'"

......

Jingle, jingle thump. I wet nose pressed against hers and whiskers tickled her cheeks. Then, a delicate paw reached out and ever so carefully needled her shoulder with just enough claw to prick but not break skin.

If she didn't get up and feed the little brat Michele knew exactly what the despicable mog’s next move would be, Slinky would wake up her slumbering accomplice and then Michele could wave goodbye to any time to get her head straight.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam sighed in frustration.

They'd been too late, again.  
Another examination of a body in the morgue.  
Another vessel they'd been to late to save. Another corpse with burned out eyes, that left a hole in someone's life.  
Another good man dead, and it was his, Sam 'I-know-best' Winchester’s fault.  
If he'd never gone poking at the cage, Lucifer would still be in there, yes maybe they might not have slowed Amara down long enough for Dean to talk her off the ledge... But who's fault was it that the Darkness had been released?  
His!

Sam glanced at his phone again feeling guilty, for another reason, he hadn't exactly promised Dean he wouldn't write any more emails to Michele. But he knew Dean wouldn't be happy if he did.

There was this clock in his head now, set to New Zealand time, a mythical place where nothing bad happened and mothers fed cats and made breakfast for kids that slept every night in the same bed, and they never ever had to think of monsters or things that went bump in the night.

He didn't want that to change.

Special child, prophet or... something else.  
He hadn't so much as thought about asking those questions in over a week. Simply ignored that stuff, because he liked his little door into normal.  
Until Dean had caught him and slapped him in the face with the facts.  
Could Michele actually be normal, if she had written of events in Montauk as they were happening?

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose thinking about the one thing Dean didn't know of, that second story.  
He hadn't looked at it's progress in days. Why he hadn't told Dean about, "The Thing You Hate?" He didn't want to examine that question too closely either.

Today maybe, reading Michele’s story was a fair compromise for his uneasily balance of internal conflicts.

.........

Reading right up to Chapter 5 had been amusing.

Nothing after that was.

Even the cute sweet stuff tasted sour and bitter. Because it wasn't a story, it was someone's life.  
It was like an Ouroborus, a snake eating its own tail.  
And Michele didn't suspect a thing, some of the commenters, who thought it was a work of fiction saw what she was too blind to see.

But Michele trusted him.

She thought she lived in _the real world,_ where ‘Supernatural’ was a fictional story.

Sam blinked and ran his hand through his hair looking down at the tail end of Chapter 10 with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

What had he expected exactly? Dean was right.

Pulling up the email, Sam stared at the photos Michele had attached to it, her and her husband smiling at the camera, her 4 children in a swimming pool. The hedgehog, ducks and someone taking a pony for a walk. There was so much simple joy and innocence in what she’d offered to him. Like a child offering up a view of her treasures, all in a bid to win a friend.

He stared at the photos while a lump formed in his throat and ground his teeth on the helpless anger, thonking of the same smiling face with blood running down it.

Echoing his words half a world away.

"We're not winning, we're just losing slow."

Why?

Why?

Why?

Michele seemed such a genuinely nice person. She didn’t deserve this, she didn’t deserve him.

Sam took a few deep breaths trying to see past the shimmer of rage which filled him, over the unfairness and twisted nature of his world.

  
Guilt and a shame warred briefly as he told himself he wasn't responsible, not for this, not for some stranger having nosebleeds and visions on the other side of the planet.

He wanted to believe that she'd be fine.

He wanted to believe that the other side of the world was far enough away.

He wanted to believe that not knowing what was out there in the dark, was protecting her. Ignorance was bliss.

She wasn’t in any danger because of him.

....

Maybe he couldn't fix what was happening to Michele.

But he could find Lucifer and put him back in the cage.

That was the job laid at his feet.

He needed to find Lucifer’s next vessel.


	16. Darkest Before Dawn

**The Thing You Hate**

  
**Chapter 16: Darkest Before Dawn**

Michele Chadwick sat alone staring at the phone cradled in her hands.  
The sky held a barely there flush of orange, dawn was still an idea rather than an actuality and the hills were just dark hunched shapes outside the dark windows.

'It's always darkest before dawn,' she advised herself a little tritely, trying to pull her mind away from the dream which still haunted her.

This morning there were no emails or new chapters from her favourite authors to distract her.

There are days like that, days when even though your life is full of people you love, and things you must do; you feel alone in your head, bogged down in darkness without escape.

The advice of an old lady, from a college bible study years ago; ’in those moments when you feel like curling up in self-pity, instead reach out. When you feel helpless or hopeless, instead help others and give them hope.’

Her thoughts went where they often did lately. To America, points unknown. Sam, a friend, who was an idea without a face.

...ooo0ooo…

Dean sauntered into the library carrying two beers, slid one across the table to his brother and sat down opposite him with an expectant look.

"So, find anything? Anyone powerful or respectable that's suddenly changed, or exploded?" Dean’s voice grated without much humour.

"Well this is pretty interesting, this is the Arch Bishop of Saint Lewis, with Wallace Parker."

"So?"

"So, that was him 3 days ago, and this, is him last night. At the opening of a food kitchen. See anything missing?"

"Yeah, the big mother of a cross round his neck." And a dose of humanity, Dean thought to himself, studying the difference between the first two relaxed easy smiling photos, and the rigid face with unsmiling eyes in the third.

"Exactly!" Sam raised a hand and met his brother's eyes.  
"And this morning, his office cancelled all further public appearances, without comment."

"Ok, you're thinking Lucifer blasted out of Parker and into his buddy, the Arch bishop here?"

Sam tilted his head with a slight twitch of his lips, "It's worth a shot."

His brother grunted in agreement and downed his beer.

…ooo0ooo…

The silence in the impala was a bleak thing, the rain ran down the windows like tears, reflecting in the occasional flares of oncoming headlights.

Dean spared a glance at his brother. He was hunched in on himself, eyes nailed to his phone and the photos of massacred clergy; jaw clenched looking like he was going to hurl. But still he stared, as if burning the images into his brain was penance, and maybe to Sammy it was.

"Give it a rest Sam," Dean griped, snatching the phone out of his brother's hand.

Sam just stared at him with wounded eyes.  
Dean stared back with an impassive mask, not letting Sammy see how full his own mind was with the horrors they'd just witnessed.  
Lucifer was so far off the reservation now, he felt completely out of his depth.

Smashing Daddy's favorite toys was getting blatant.

Dean felt his teeth grate together.

His usual smart comments wouldn't come.

Sam's phone vibrated in his hand.  
Sam had a message from that Chick in New Zealand.  
Looking at his brother's face, Dean tried to calculate Sam's mental trajectory.

Crap, when had he ever been able to withhold anything from Sam, that might buffer him from the horrors of their life?

Swiping the photo app closed brutally he tossed his brother back his phone.

"You've got mail," he drawled, "crack it open and read me what's new in hobbitsville."

Sam eyed him dubiously, a little surprised, then huffed and started reading.

"Dear Sam

Yesterday at Casa Chadwick it was hair cutting day. Now in civilised America I'm sure you attend a hair salon regularly to get your hair cut or coloured, and you probably consider it to be a treat."

Dean snorted in amusement and Sam glared at him hearing all the girly hair comments which he left unsaid.

"Not my fault. Samantha," Dean drawled. Sam shot him a bitchface but kept reading.

"But here in the home of autism, a trip to a hair salon is a major mental trauma."

Sam looked up at his smirk again and his lips, unspoken memories of how much a younger Sam had hated haircuts flitted between them.

"Thankfully four years in university, a Bachelor of Medical Laboratory Science and 14 years of parenting have prepared me for this. That and doctor google, and Mr 2s first crush, Ooootuubbe. (Did you know there are videos on YouTube about how to bath hedgehogs, no lie.  
Since the hedgehog driftnetting episode, Mr Autism has Educated me that hedgehogs make good pets and he knows just how to care for one!)  
So, I have learnt how to cut hair, because being touched by strangers can make my 8 year old darling explode like a case of old dynamite in the middle of a fireworks display...on a trampoline.  
He hates haircuts (and I mean they are a white-knuckle experience for him, even when I do it) and I hate having to do it, though I'm getting better at the actual cutting side of things, and he no longer looks like he's had a fight with a lawnmower when I've finished. Yay Mum!  
We soldier through it together and both breath deep sighs of relief when the mutual trauma is over.

It's one of life's cruel ironies is that the poor kid’s hair grows like radioactive weeds on steroids.  
It's dead straight, thick and once it gets more than a few inches long, it cooks him. He has his Dads hair, but Phil doesn’t cook like he does. I maintain it's due to Johnny’s brain whirring away like a hyperactive top in there. Like he’s got a supercomputer in there.  
But it could be because he's pretty much always in constant motion.  
He's the only kid I know who runs on the spot while doing stuff on the computer… until he's dripping with sweat.  
Childhood obesity is so not an issue, he's a really picky eater too, not crap food, like chicken nuggets and fries, like other kids with autism have a fetish for. Oh no! my kid has to live on raw vegetables and lean meat.

But not potatoes! Because potatoes in all their many varied forms are apparently the spawn of Satan himself, somehow Johnny can sense potato contamination in food from fifty thousand feet. It’s ridiculous and maddening!

Add to that, a horror of fried food and fat.

The pediatrician gives me these looks like I’m a food Nazi or starving him every time he’s weighed and I have to keep telling the guy, he's small because his parents are short, not because we forget to feed him. And I try to get more fat into him, honestly! It's not natural I tell you Sam. What do you do with a kid like that?"

At that Dean snorted. "Crazy smart kid, that hates haircuts and eats like an emo hippy? tell her to send the kid to Stanford to become a lawyer."

Sam shoved his brother's shoulder and rolled his eyes.

"Today we are supposed to go visit the beach with the in-laws, blah! So, I'll write some more after (how painfully normal is it that I don't look forward with great longing to a whole day spent with my in-laws?) But I have my camera so maybe I’ll attach some photos.

Hi Sam, back again.

Yoy never even missed me did you?  
The first photo is in honour of your brother and his newfound assimilation to the dreaded fruit website.  
I bet you're wondering what a bird has to do with that right? *sniggers* the bird in question is a shag. Now in New Zealand 'shag' is also a word used for sex, I do so hope it's the same over there!  
So, next time your brother is at you to hook up with someone, look him straight in the face and tell him you recently…” Sam coughed and started laughing. Taking a few deep breaths to recover, he continued reading again.  
"…you recently got shagged by a New Zealand chick, and tell him she'd be willing to 'shag' him too, anytime he wants. Now if he's anything like _my_ big brother that should shut him up marvelously. 

  
"Freakin’ smart-ASD hobbit, I oughta..."

Sam shot him a genuine smile.  
"Yeah Dean, like you'd spend more than 12 hours on a plane."

Dean made a rude gesture.  
"This is me, flipping her the bird right back." He scoffed.

  
Sam smirked and kept reading.

“They might tease us about our sex lives, but big brothers really don’t wanna think about their little sisters sex lives... Pretty much ever… it fries all their mental circuits Tehehe.  
Seriously though, I only do bird photos. I'm simply trying to amuse and bemuse you with my awful puns. I'd never swing that way, no matter how much I might wuv you Sammy, and hubby is the only one I'll ever need.

Stay safe and sane out there on the other side of the world. Please find attached several other beach photos.

Hugs  
-MC2"

  
Watching his brother’s smile, as he sat there looking through photos from the family’s beach trip, Dean figured maybe the hobbit did have her uses after all.


	17. Maybe the Baby Thing

**The Thing You Hate**

  
**Chapter 17: Maybe the Baby Thing**

"Hell, crap, damn, sonofabitch!" Michele let loose a string of curses, as she sat in her car in the doctor’s office car-park and banged her hands against the steering wheel.

Then sighed, at the thought that hanging out writing and reading about fictional Winchesters, had really done a number on her prissy good girl, "I'm a Christian and we don't swear," stance.  
And rested her forehead against the steering wheel, she still wanted to hit something, or maybe cry.

The doctor’s opinion: "You have four kids, one of them with autism, and one of them with developmental delays. What you're experiencing is normal for a woman your age, just signs of all the stress you are under."

A prescription lay crumpled on the passenger seat.  
Antidepressants and sleeping pills.  
She growled in the back of her throat, glaring at it in irritation.

But I'm not depressed! she'd argued. I am sleeping...

When she'd tried to explain... it had just come out wrong, shallow, silly.

Then, she'd burst into tears, like a frigging idiot.

And that was that.

The only thing the doctor saw was a pathetic little stay at home Mummy, snapping under the burden of her substandard children.

Oh, he'd checked her out and sent her off for a battery of tests. Asked questions about her sexual, and work history…

But she could tell his mind was made up.  
She was just weak, a neurotic little flapping birdbrain.

It just made her so _darned_ angry!

She had give herself points for getting out of there without punching the smug prick in the face, or kneeing him somewhere down south.

  
But no, the fact was, she’d _never_ do that, she was a good girl, she respected authority figures, and didn’t resort to antisocial behaviour.

  
She told herself what the doctor thought of her didn’t matter.

She glared again at the prescription on the passenger seat, like it was a poisonous snake.

She didn't want or need the pills, she wanted answers!

As if to drive home that point, a flare of pain spiked through her skull, and images and sound sliced through her brain like a laser.

***

A man and woman lay in a bed, relaxed and at ease. The woman looked at the man adoring

".....Maybe the wedding thing.  
Maybe the baby thing.  
I just, I just know you'd make an amazing father." The woman declared wistfully and snuggled against the man’s chest.  
  
The man wrapped his arm round the woman drawing her close and smiled smugly and somewhat thoughtfully down at her.  
  
....It seemed such an innocent scene but it sent an unexplainable flare of alarm and terror through her, like the sound of fingernails scraping down a black board and an air raid siren combined.

***

The warm, wet, worm of blood oozing from her nose, across her lip and pattering onto her knee, brought Michele back to the world around her.

Hunting blindly in the glovebox for baby wipes Michele tilted her head back against the seat to stop the bleeding.  
Found herself wondering if today’s blood tests or tomorrow's scan didn't show up anything, where exactly that leave her?

"Possibly stuffed," she muttered, starting the car to drive home, to her four kids who thought she’d gone shopping for new shoes.

Thank goodness for teenagers who were old enough to baby sit, self-absorbed enough that they never questioned and wanted nothing more than to sit on the couch all day, surfing the web on their iPad's.

...ooo0ooo...

Cas looked up and sighed wearily.  
"Did the bunkers warding fail?" he grated, and looked harassed as Dean walked into the room.

"I just powered it down. Crowley called, said he had some big news about Lucifer. Whatever the hell that means."

"Wait, wait, wait, wait a second. So now Crowley, can what? Drop in whenever he feels like it? I prefer keeping Crowley at a distance. Long distance." Sam grumbled.

"Not very charitable Moose" Crowley’s voice growled from behind Sam, making him exhale and roll his eyes and run a harassed hand across his face.

".... Particularly since, once again, I'm saving both your asses." Crowley continued, unabated by his less than enthusiastic greeting "So as you know, I'm persona-non-grata in my own Palace."

"Palace?!" Both Winchesters chorused in disbelief and disdain.

"However," Crowley drove the conversation ruthlessly forward, ignoring the lack of enthusiasm from his listeners, "there are those I still control, operatives..."

"Crowley, can we just get the damn news without the drama?!" Sam cut in.

"Can I get you without the flannel?" Crowley snarked. "No! Still, I endure..."

"What?" Sam snapped as Crowley laid hands on his precious laptop.

"I did a little digging, acting on a tip. I think I know the identity of Lucifer’s newest vessel"

"Ah for god’s sakes," muttered Dean as the demon drew out the reveal by using Sam’s laptop.

"Gentlemen, I give you, one Jefferson Roonie. President of these United States."

There was a silence in the room, both brother's swallowed and green and hazel eyes met in weighted silence that spoke volumes of dread.

...ooo0ooo...

 **10:25AM**  
**Hey Peaches what's happening in America today?**

Michele questioned sipping her coffee and downing yet more ibuprofen.

Peaches, 10:26AM  
Nothing earth shattering, astronomy study mostly. Hey what's a prize all stars get?

1 **0:27AM**  
**Umm, is this like a riddle?"**

Peaches, 10:27AM  
Yip

 **10:28AM**  
**Hmm I dunno.**

Peaches, 10:29AM  
A constellation prize!

 **10:30AM**  
**Oh hahaha, it's so bad it's actually quite good.**

Peaches, 10:30AM  
I know, right

The grinning emoji popped up.

 **10:32AM**  
**So, what's happening in Supernatural fanfic land? What's ya word count?**

Peaches, 10:33AM  
2.3k, Sam and Dean are both having a bad day.

 **10:35AM**  
**So… Another 1.7k-ish at least before I get my next fix then?**

 **10:36AM**  
**Ever of tossing them a puppy and a bag of MMs occasionally kiddo?**

Peaches, 10:38AM  
Werewolf or Cujo?

 **10:39AM**  
**Labrador with a big pink bow round its neck that makes you go awwwww.**

Peaches, 10:40AM  
No dogs in the car, it's a rule

Michele smiled despite herself, Peaches was just great value.

 **10:45AM**  
**You're my favouritist imaginary friend in the whole world.**

She typed impulsively still smiling.

Peaches, 10:47AM  
Awww, bet you say that to all your captive ficwriters

 **10:50AM**  
**Nah you're not really captive, maybe you're more like a tamagotchi, except you don't die if I forget to feed you...**

Peaches, 10:51AM  
Feeding me reviews makes me happy!

 **10:52AM**  
**Be a good ficwriter and finish your chapter then, then you'll have lots of tasty reviews from all us adoring fans.**

Again, with the tongue poking emoji.

  
...ooo0ooo…

  
**3:30PM**  
**Oh hell!**

Peaches, 3:31PM  
What?

 **3:32PM**  
**Cougar: Mother of Tacos' is reading TTYH I got a review from her -hyperventilates-**

Peaches, 3:33AM  
One of your captives?

 **3:37PM**  
**No, no, meep!**  
**She's one of the GOOD writers, -looks wide eyed- I fan worship her, and gush at her like a tween at a Bieber concert (cos she's soo wonderful) .... like you... but now you're off the pedestal and I'm not so in totally intimidated by you -flutters eyelashes.- Cos it's hard to be intimidated by someone you simultaneously want to send to bed.**

Peaches, 3:38PM  
Yeah, yeah

 **3:40PM**  
**If you don't get enough sleep you won't be able to learn properly, and and what if it's that one lesson that teaches you how NOT to make an evil AI, and you fall asleep...and then you accidentally build a fruity version of SkyNet that thinks it's ok to torture everyone called Sam or Dean.... and and then it might hurt my private investigator girl .... and and ... then I'd be really really sad. So, so go get some sleep or... I'll be .... .....sad!**

The laughing emoji popped up.

Peaches, 3:42PM  
I'm going... soon.

3:44PM  
**G'Night Peachy girl.**


	18. Coffeebreak

**The Thing You Hate**

  
**Chapter 18: Coffeebreak**

Castile had grown to like coffee. The preparation, the warmth, even what for him could be described as the taste.  
He also liked that Crowley was gone. Being alone with the two Winchesters was a balm after so long in the King of Hell’s company.

Castiel looked down at the cups of coffee he held in each hand with a feeling of satisfaction.

Then, his vessels hands began shaking uncontrollably as a sensation ripped through his being, a surge of unimaginable power that blurred his perception of heaven and earth like the rush of a tidal wave.

The cups fell from his hands, shattering on the floor, spraying coffee everywhere.

Then, the screaming began, buffeting his senses and making him cry out and stumble, hands to his head in agony.

Distantly he sensed Dean and Sam rush towards him.

"Cas, Cas, Hey!" Dean laid steadying hands on him, gazing at him in alarm and concern.

"Something's happened, something..." he explained. "Angel radio. There's so many voices..." he rasped trying to find the meaning through the cacophony.

"What are they saying."

"There's been a massive surge in celestial energy." Castile looked up in horrified understanding. "A Nephilim has come into being. It's the offspring of an angel and a human."

"And that's big news?" Dean queried eyeing his friend.

"Yes! The power to produce This is immense, it's much, much greater than a typical angel."

Sam's face dropped, "Lucifer."

"Lucifer?" Dean looked over his shoulder at his brother " ... I didn't even know he was dating." His smart mouth in gear before he could really take it in.

"I must, I must go, and find out what I can from my brethren," Cas's voice was a gravelly rasp as he turned and left.

"Yeah, okay buddy. Then ... Indianapolis." Dean answered distractedly, hardly seeming to notice Cas had left already.

Bending down, Sam began to clean up the bits of shattered crockery, feeling numb.

Anytime Lucifer came up, his head filled with screaming and images.

He pretended everything was ok, but it wasn't.

How could it be? Lucifer had hurt him in every way imaginable, and there was no where or how he could escape from that.

But he held it together and pretended.

For Dean. For himself ...because there was nothing else to do.  
Otherwise Lucifer won.  
So, he held himself together, with chewing gum, sticky tape and strength of will alone.

Dean bent down beside him, towel in hand, mopping up the spilt coffee.

"You good?" He asked.

It was like a secret code between them, between the words was a message that said, I know your hurting, I'm here.

"Yeah." Sam swallowed a whole encyclopaedia of words back down inside, and left it at that.

"You hear from the Lord of The Rings, Austin Powers combo today?" Dean queried.

Sam blinked, not following at all for a moment.

"You know bro, The Hobbit who _Shagged_ You.." Dean wiggled his eyebrows.

Sam found a weak smile for his brother.

"That was awful dude. Nah, I think I owe her one..."

"Go write one then."

Sam looked at his brother incredulously, "but..."

"Can't make it worse canya, tell her we're off to Indianapolis on a case involving potatoes."

"Huh?"

"Her kid, thinks they're the spawn of Satan right!?"

Sam shoved his brother and rolled his eyes.

…ooo0ooo….

"So, everything was normal?" Michele asked sitting perched uncomfortably on the chair opposite the doctor.

"Yes, the blood results and brain scans came back totally normal. As I advised you previously, it's just stress. Having 4 children could cause a strain on any normal woman Mrs Chadwick." The man’s voice held a placating dismissive tone that set Michele’s teeth on edge.

She wanted to ask again exactly how many _other_ mothers of four he had treated suffering from visions, migraines and unexplained nasal bleeding. Wondered snidely, why she had never seen a journal article or health warning stating that ownership of more than three children could have adverse health effects. But she guessed, if the blood work and brain scan didn't show up anything, there really wasn't much point on belabouring things further.

Instead she pursed her lips then favoured him a sugar sweet smile.

"It never fails to amaze me how you can remember the exact number of children I have, even when you can't remember the symptoms that brought me here. Your people skills are definitely something of a wonder doctor Blake."

The doctor was smiling, as if what she'd said was complementary when she shut the door, rather firmly behind her.

So now what? Whatever was happening, she doubted it had anything to do with stress or the number of kids she had.

Dead priest dreams and visions aside, (and yes that felt like a big thing to put aside,) she was the least stressed she'd been all year, with all four kids home on summer holidays she didn't have the constant uphill battle with the medical and school system.

Horrible symptoms aside, (oh for cripes sake it was only headaches, nose bleeds and a few bad dreams, maybe the doctor was right, thinking she was a drama queen,) she'd almost say she was content with life lately. She even had a hobby, if fanfic and collecting people could be called a hobby.

If the brain scans and bloods were clear whatever it was probably wouldn't kill her, right? Unless she blacked out and swerved into oncoming traffic.

Was she absolved of responsibility now? Was it reasonable to just ignore it and hope it went away. 

...ooo0ooo...

Hi Michele

I must tell you the fruit website prank blew up in my face.  
I think you'd have gotten a good laugh out of it.  
My brother thought it was research I was doing for my own benefit. Then when I told him it was meant for him, he thought I was implying that there was something wrong with, uh ...him.... You should have seen his face. Owch!  
As a result, my brother now knows who you are. And that we met via Supernatural fan-fiction.

So, your kind offer of a New Zealand sea bird was received with a certain amount of ill humor, (in fact he flipped you the bird right back. By which I mean he made a rude hand gesture.)  
And he now refers to you as, "The Lord of The Rings, Austin Powers combo.... The hobbit who shagged you."

  
He did just ask whether you'd written today, when I told him you hadn't because it was my turn, he suggested I go write to you.  
I think, he's mostly amused by our correspondence.  
I ended up reading him your last email. So, I guess you now have two readers here in America (I hope you don't mind.)

Our next job is in Indianapolis and involves potatoes, in a roundabout way.  
Possibly, we could do with your son’s super power for sensing them from afar.  
But I doubt you'll UPS him to us, and I'm not at all skilled in handling dynamite, on a trampoline full of fireworks, or kids really (great imagery by the way.) We’ll have to make do I guess, armed with our awesome investigative powers and a few useful contacts, as per usual.  
I love fireworks, they always bring back memories of good times and delinquency, led by my brother, when were much younger and not particularly well supervised.  
In some States, you can't buy fireworks, even sparklers now. Because of terrible kids like us, and the inevitable chaos caused round 4th of July.  
Do you have holidays with fireworks involved there? Or is it under there? Since I believe New Zealand and Australia are often referred to as down-under?

As always, hoping you are safe and well.

-Sam.

...ooo0ooo…

  
Hi Sam, sometimes Sammy

You juvenile delinquent pyromaniac you! *Grins*  
I'm married to an adult pyromaniac, if you must know.  
Each year on Guy Fawkes, hubby indulges in his pyro fetish and the neighbors cringe in terror, one year he shot the neighbor across the road’s house with them, this year he accidentally shot one of the fireworks under his work vehicle, and there were explosions and sparks shooting out from under it for a very long 2 minutes.  
Apparently, that doesn't cause a car to explode after all, score one for reality over movies.  
Let's just say wifee me wasn't very impressed with her hubby’s antics.

They banned sky rockets here a while back and only allow fireworks sale for 4 days a year, to people over 18. They also rumble about banning them every year.  
But so far, no one is brave enough to take away New Zealander’s god given right to make things go whiz-bang.

Ever since I started talking to Americans via fanfic I've been trying to work out the difference in New Zealand psyche. Their stand out differences from other nationalities.  
Guy Fawkes sums us up quite well, I suppose.  
What exactly do we celebrate on November 5th? I ask myself.  
I’ve come to the conclusion, we actually celebrate that a guy had the balls to try and stand up to the government of the time, we do sort of spare a thought for the fact he failed and suffered a gruesome death for his troubles.  
But that's ok.  
We get that the underdog who stands up, will probably get kicked.  
But we salute a bloke for trying.  
And quietly relish the fact our celebration is probably the exact opposite of what the authorities intended. I’m guessing with all the Guy burning it’s supposed to be about celebrating the demise of a terrorist. And while we don’t like terrorists here, and I don’t particularly, after 9/11, since I got to test an unending parade of white powders for anthrax in my lab job back then. My favourite was the one where they diverted a plane to the closest airport to us so I could test white powder found in the toilet... no it wasn’t drugs or anthrax. It turned out to be anti-fungal powder spilled but a red faced Chinese business man. Who didn’t say anything till he realised he was going to miss his connecting flight if he didn’t fess up.

True story!  
  
I read once that people in New Zealand mistrust and malign politicians more than most of places around the world, and as a result, our politicians are actually some of the most honest. *Shrug.*  
I still don't trust em personally.  
We Kiwi’s are a weird mix of cynicism, trust and trying to do the right thing.  
So, you get a country that’s nuclear free and doesn’t allow American nuclear vessels to visit, but we send soldiers into Iraq…. to help. But... just to defuse mines, or train medics, or do training.

There was an add on TV that played here a while back. It's based on the scenario that at the beginning of creation God was handing out stuff to countries. A representative of each country was sitting there with a push buzzer in front of them, and the first to push the buzzer got whatever was on offer.  
Other countries got gold and diamonds... and our bloke got us a lolly (candy) called, "pineapple lumps" (which are very yummy incidentally.)  
The bloke was really happy with himself and God yelled out. "Well done New Zealand!”  
(He never congratulated the winners of gold and diamonds ... but New Zealand getting the lollies, He was proud of us for that. We get what everyone thinks of as the booby prize, but we (us and God) know we're still God’s favourite.)  
It's just so totally NZ!  
We're the goofy good natured Labradors of the world, always wanting to help, and pretty darned happy about everything we have, even if, maybe, it wasn’t all that great by comparison.  
We have a very kiwi saying, "She'll be right mate."  
I know things aren't always ok, but I do sorta want to believe they will be in the end.

MC2


	19. Assume makes an ass of you and me

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 19: Assume makes an ass of you and me**

Crowley returned with a screaming woman and dumped her in a chair.

It took some time for her to calm down enough to listen.

Of course, what they had to say wasn't exactly useful for calming down an overwrought woman with Lucifer’s love child growing inside her; after she'd been kidnapped in the blink of an eye by a demon.

....

"No, no, you're making it up. It's impossible." She stammered taking another mouthful of her drink, with the glass rattling against her teeth.

"Well, to be fair, so is teleporting.  
But. Tada!" Dean announced with a slightly goofy grin.  
Sam shot him a bitch-face.

"Who are you people?" Kelly Kline, presidential mistress asked.

Rowena stepped forward with a smile. "Well dear... I'm a witch" she smiled laying manicured hands on her chest. "He's an angel," a wave at Castiel, and a grave nod from Cas.

"And I'm the King of Hell" Crowley added in with a wave.

"Oh god!" The woman gasped.

"No, actually. He left." Cas contributed gravely like a solemn child, completely misunderstanding the woman's horror.

"Ok guys! Not helping!" Sam burst in wondering if he was the only person in the room not intent on pushing Kelly over the edge and turning her into a gibbering wreck.

A beat of silence.

"No, you can't, he's the President." Kelly breathed.

"He was, but now... Tell me he hasn't been acting different." Sam argued earnestly.

"...Just under a lot of stress... he..."

"Wrong! He's the Devil,” Crowley broke in, "horns, pitchfork, the whole nine," he sniped, and Castiel nodded solemnly.

"Crowley! _Still_ not helping!" Sam burst out, beyond frustrated with him.

Crowley turned and walked away, sulking.

"Listen, we know what we're talking about, we've been on Lucifer’s trail a long time..."

"And we know you're pregnant, with his child." Rowena broke in almost kindly.

"That's, that's, you're lying..."

Cas finally broke ranks.  
"The thing inside you, its unholy" he told Kelly and pulled the ubiquitous Gideon bible from one of the bedside draws. "It's an abomination.”

"That's... N..." Kelly looked at the bible Cas held uncertainty.

"Place your hand here." He ordered implacably, holding it out.

Kelly looked up into Cas’ eyes for a moment, before doing as he asked.

A look of horror swept her pretty face as the bible began to smoke and then caught on fire.

Burning in a perfect imprintation of her hand.

The proof was enough to make even Sam gulp in horror.

The evidence hit Kelly like a blow, her mouth opened soundlessly in a gasp of horror, lost for words.   
As she looked up at Castiel, their faces lit by flame.

Dean, ever practical, brought over the rubbish bin and a jug of water, to douse the flaming book before it set off a smoke alarm.

"No, no, no..." Kelly almost whimpered, shaking her head in denial.

"Does he even know you're knocked up?" Dean asked gruffly.

"Yes, he said he was thrilled... he said it was the only time he'd created any ... thing,” Kelly swallowed miserably.

The Winchester brothers shared a weighted glance.

"Kelly," Sam spoke softly, feeling terrible as he looked down at her, "we need your help." He knew he was using what Dean called puppy dog eyes and hated it.  
For a moment, his mind went to another woman half a world away, he also felt like he was manipulating.

Feeling like crap, Sam laid out the plan for Kelly again. Used every trick in his book to get her with the program, while the others simply watched.

When he was finished, and Kelly has agreed he left her to Rowena, who shot him a complex look, one which almost resembled a combination of admiration and pity.

It didn't help.

Dean met his eyes from across the room and took a step towards him, but Sam shook his head.

"Just need some air,” he managed, before walking out.

He left Dean standing there watching the closed door with a concerned frown on his face.

.....

Sam leaned against the tan and red wall of the Plains Motel unit. His eyes taking in the garish orange doors and bright yellow metal chairs outside each unit, sucking in deep lungfuls of air of panicked breath.  
Trying to find something to ground himself with; to drown out the guilt which he knew was senseless, but for some reason still gnawed at him.

  
He hadn't done this... But he guessed without him, none of this would have happened.

Always. His mistakes were the blocks at the base of the tower, holding up all the other mess.

He just wanted to be done!

To stop being an instrument for causing good people pain, and trying endlessly to clean up his messes.

Raking a weary hand through his hair, Sam pinched at the bridge of his nose and pulled out his phone as a distraction, to check his emails.

....

Looking down at the email from New Zealand he huffed out a heavy sigh.

Fuck! More lies.

Thumping his phone against his side in self-disgust Sam sighed again, straightening his shoulders and began typing.

.......

Dear Michele

I've got something to tell you, I've been letting you believe something that isn't true.  
When it started it just seemed easier to let you believe it.  
Then, well, it got awkward, and to be honest I didn't want the way you wrote to me to change.  
I'm not a girl Michele.  
I'm guessing you're pissed at me about now.  
All I can say is I'm sorry.  
I really hope it doesn't change anything for you.

Please.

Your friend  
-Sam

  
Tapping the send button, before he could reconsider, Sam took another breath.

Suddenly he was sure he'd made a huge mistake.

But it was too late. And right now, they had a job to do.

As if summoned, Dean’s head popped out from behind the garish orange door with number 5 on it, his face was lined with stress right up until his eyes landed on Ssm.  
When they did, it was just a flex of his shoulders, but his whole body seemed to relax.

Despite everything, Dean still thought of him as a kid that needed keeping an eye on.

Sam flicked his eyes down to his phone, maybe he did need keeping an eye on.

"Just about go time." Dean told him, eyebrow cocked questioningly.

With a nod, Sam followed his brother back into the room.

...ooo0ooo…

Michele was labelling stationary; next week school started back.

Darn where had the summer holidays gone?

Ten million felt-tip pens, coloured pencils, books and various other learning supplies surrounded her on the bed.

A two-foot-high menace trolled the floor around the bed, like a shark, just waiting for stationary to slide into reach of his chubby hands; then he could grab it up and run away giggling, to be chased round the house.

It had already happened a few times and to be honest it broke up the monotony and gave her cramped hand a rest. How could anyone resist that cheeky dimpled grin?

Pretending nonchalance, she nudged an already labelled ruler closer to the edge of the bed and within reach.  
Hazel eyes with flashes of what was almost orange, lit up in delight as his chubby hands grabbed up the prize.

And then the child was in giggling flight, grasping the ruler to his small chest.

Three laps round the house and mother and son returned to the bedroom.

Tickling and raspberries commenced, along with ruler retrieval, until the pink cheeked toddler slid down off the bed to escape.

Which alas, signalled her return to the salt-mines. Blah.

With a put-upon sigh, Michele went back to the mindless slog of stationary labelling.  
It was the purgatory of parenthood, she thought grimly.

She hadn't even reached the epic battle of covering the school books with Duracell yet.

But that was a job that could wait until her two-year-old 'helper' was safely out of the way, in bed.

Her phone buzzed on the bedside cabinet, and she labelled two more pens, to prove she wasn’t really addicted, honestly.  
Then grabbed up her phone.

A happy smile lit her face, seeing the email was from Sammy.

….

The smile slid off her face as she read.

Sam wasn't a girl?

Ohhhhh...... her cheeks heated in embarrassed horror.

Rubbing her hand over her mouth, Michele felt a little sick, as she let her mind wander back over every email she'd written to Sam.

Oh! Oh… Gahds, this was beyond humiliating.  
She dropped the phone on the bed like it was a poisonous snake and stared unseeing out the window.

Ohhh.... the frigging fruit website.... a whimper of purest horror found its way from her throat.

The bloody shag...

No, no, no!

Innocent hugs and stupid comments took on a whole new meaning if Sam was a guy.

Argh....

Ohh, she wanted to just DIE.

She'd assumed, and yes Sam had said her... no his, brother called him Samantha but... Oh crap!  
They said, that when you assumed you made an ass out of you and me. Well, she was definitely a giant ass.

Glaring at nothing Michele thought viciously that so was Bloody Sam!  
She betted he'd been having a great laugh at her from over there in America. Stupid little kiwi, ha De haha, very funny.

If he was here, now, she'd slap him!

That's it Sam! no more emails for you, creepy bloody American.  
Michele flopped over onto the bed burying her face into the pillow wanting to cry.

Phil was going to laugh at her so hard.


	20. Mr President

  
**The Thing You Hate**

  
**Chapter 20: Mr President**

It was a fairly simple plan, lure President-Lucifer to the motel using Kelly as bait, paint a blood sigil to make sure Lucifer couldn't hop out, then use the British men of letters hyperbolic pulse generator to pop Lucifer out of President Jefferson Roonie. Rowena would then shove him back in the cage using the prepared spell.

And it had worked, even the bit they were shaky on, whether they might exorcise Crowley, Cas, _and Lucifer_. And whether the angel and demo should leave before the fight, Cas wasn’t willing to leave them, but it was Crowley who had gotten his panties in a bunch over the idea, finally pointing out with typical venom that magic was about intent, and if Sam focused on who the enemy was, everyone else would be perfectly fine.

Dean hadn't liked the fact that the sigil was in Sam's blood, he hadn't liked that Sam would be the one holding and using the Men of Letters fricking golden egg much either. Little things like that often came back to bite them. The thing with Dick Roman proved that.

But he got it, Sam needed this.

All his life he'd encouraged Sammy to stand up to bullies. Yeah, usually he'd been there, ready to rip out the douchbags lungs before they could touch Sam, this time, against Lucifer, he wasn't sure he could do jackshit.

His hands had still itched for an angel blade when Lucifer has started choking Kelly, and when he'd looked at Sam with that predator’s look.

"Ah Sam... we've done this dance so many times." The evil sonofabitch had dismissed Sam like he was nothing.

But Sam wasn't nothing; score one for Sammy and the Men of Letters magical golden egg, because it was working!

Filling the room with howling radiance, exploding light bulbs and shoving Sam back against the wall, the magical golden egg was definitely causing Lucifer all kinds of hurt, Dean could see Lucifer’s essence being forced out of Roonie by the thing’s mojo.

"Rowena now!" Dean bit out, and Rowena began the spell to shove Lucifer’s ass back in the cage, where the bastard belonged.

The force of howling radiance increased, caving in the mirror on the wall.

"This isn't over Sam," Lucifer snarled, and the threat was like fingernails down Dean’s nerves.

But he’d had never been prouder of his brothers response.

"Go to Hell." Sam snarled raising that golden egg, didn't so much as flinch.

.....

Sam's golden egg and Rowena’s spell ripped Lucifer’s last hold out of the president, the blazing light, which was the essence of last archangel, funneled into the floor-vent and down to Hell.

The president dropped like a sack of potatoes.

There was a moment of silence, the only sound, Kelly's sobbing breaths of distress.

Sam and Dean shared a look, asking each other silently, "is it really over," in the suddenly dim quiet of the room.

Then Castiel approached the president, crouched down, and lay a hand on his forehead.

"He's alive, he won't remember a thing."

As if released, Kelly rushed to the side of the man who was once again, just Jefferson Roonie, President of the United States.

"Jeff, my god. Jeff, my god..." Kelly Kline sobbed over and over, clinging to the president’s shirt with white-knuckled hands.

Sam crouched down beside Kelly and dis-tangled her gently from the President, pushed her towards Cas, along with the men of letters egg.  
"Get her out of here.  
Go. Kelly you've gotta go. Go.”

Cas wrapped an arm around Kelly and led her away.

Closing the adjoining doors behind the rooms, Dean leaned against the doors for a moment. Then looked down at his brother, crouched there beside the president.

"We got 'im," He grated. "We got Lucifer," a look of dawning relief and satisfaction lit his green eyes.

Sam took a few panting breaths, still taking it all in.  
A hesitant smile flickered on his face as he looked down, measuring the breaths of the man they'd just saved.

  
Sam nodded once to himself.

_We did it, we did it right!_ Sam exalted to himself, finally allowing the burst of joy and satisfaction to fill him up to overflowing.

Maybe they were winning after all.

.....

"Mr President." Sam murmured shaking the man’s knee, he found the whole thing oddly surreal.

"Okay. Good night. Take it easy tiger." Dean patted Roonies chest, less impressed with the man’s day job.

Suddenly there were thuds on the door, and calls of "Mr President," followed rapidly by two suited men with guns who burst into the room, before they could do much to react.

"On your feet, hands on your heads." The men barked, while aiming their guns threateningly.

"Woh, woh." Dean got up and raised his hands, voice pitched low and placating.

"Hey... listen, we were just trying to help." Sam attempted to explain, stood beside his brother, and raised his hands.

"Shut up." The man snarled raising his gun. "You're under arrest, for the attempted assassination of The President of The United States."

Both brothers winced.

…ooo0ooo…

Michele had been in a bad mood all evening, she picked at her food at dinner and pushed it away, at some point she'd apologize, and explain to her family, but right now she really didn't feel like explaining how she was nine shades of naive idiot, to anyone.

  
Sam's betrayal stung confusingly.

She followed her 8-year-old to his room for Story-time, feeling exhausted and deflated.

Doling out melatonin, vitamin supplements and cat treats to 8-year-old and cat respectively; Michele picked up tonight's story book with a sigh.  
Tonight, she really didn't feel like reading about the adventures of Septimius Heap, Extra-Ordinary Wizarding apprentice despite it being a good story.

"Mum why are you sad?"

Michele bit her lip and considered her son’s green eyes, knowing she'd never be able to lie to that face.

"One of Mummies friends from fanfic lied to her hon, and I guess I feel a little stupid and a lot sad..."

"You mean like when James lied to me, about his dad letting me have a 3D printer?"

Michele blinked in surprise, ahh yes, the 3D printer incident.

"Do you think your friend lied to you because they wanted you to like them, too?" Her son asked.

Michele felt her lips form a very childish pout, then twist into an ironic smile.

  
Damn it, this kid! He threw her own arguments back in her face with all the skill of an expert marksman and all the innocence of a lamb.

She reached out and drew her solemn eyed child into a hug, resting her chin on top of his hair and breathed in deeply.

"You are the smartest kid in the world, you know that?"

Her son pulled back and looked up at her puzzled. "It's just what you told me."

"Yeap and I'm the smartest Mummy in the world ... on Mondays, Thursdays and alternating public holidays. Now, what was Septimius up to lastnight?"

"He and Jenna escaped! They were running away from the wizard tower through the ice tunnels."

"Yes, they were...." Michele smiled, pushing thoughts of Sam away and cracked open the book at the bookmark, to continue reading.

…ooo0ooo…

The paradoxical ignominy of it was mind blowing, they were all alone and you couldn't deny how it looked. Saying, "No, hold on, we just got the devil out of the president, you should be thanking us," wasn't really an option.

The men's faces said it all, they dangerous terrorist scum.

Somehow they knew who they were too, which had to be thanks to Lucifer after the thing with Vince Vincete in LA.

The men thought they were nut jobs of the highest order who had been plotting to murder the president.  
Not to be listened to, or trusted. Men who had come this close to killing their president, _on their watch,_ had conspired to end their secret service careers for good.

If the angry men with guns and the weight of the nation’s security on their shoulders could get a few digs in on the way through, they would and could.  
Sam and Dean were searched with none to gentle hands and everything they had on them was taken.

Thankfully the impala hadn’t been parked outside the motel, and Cas had the keys, Dean thought in relief.  
Cas would get Baby home once he realised what had happened. He’d come back and break them out, or Crowley would.  
Sam got the weirdest look on his face when they took his phone, like he was remembering something awful.  
What could be more awful than what was happening right now? Dean didn't know.

But they'd figure it out, they always did.  
Cas or Crowley would save them any time now, surely.

That was how it worked.

They were marched out to the vehicle and chained, sharing weighted glances, but no words, an unspoken agreement.

The ride was long and uncomfortable. The question of how Cas would know where they were or what happened, raised its ugly head .... with their ribs carved up to hide them it wouldn’t be easy, the thought that maybe they were on their own began to soak through to both Winchester’s.


	21. Please

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 21: Please**

Michele studied the document labelled Chapter 11 with a jaundiced eye.  
It had Winchesters, honest to goodness Winchesters, and technically she supposed it wasn't a bad chapter.

She was sure the few people who were reading, “The Thing You Hate,” would appreciate seeing a Winchester, after wading through the 10 previous chapters of drivel.  
Hats off to anyone that had that much staying power, in her humble opinion.

She had also turned Sam into a guy. A cynical smile twisted her lips. After all why not, if Sam was going to laugh at her for being a naive idiot, the other readers may as well do the same.

Hell, she may as well laugh too, and turn the joke around. It was either do that or cry and she was too stubborn to give some stranger that.

It was the bit where she'd gone and turned Sam into Sam Winchester, that she found a little ... disturbing.  
She bit her lip, and scanned through the chapter again, wondering exactly what doing that said about her.

  
Was it a quiet, "screw you Sam, I don't need you," or was it just… a trifle pathetic.  
But ... if you looked at it right it fitted together with a certain finess. It looked like it could have always been heading that way....  
The actual emails settled into the whole, like pieces in a puzzle ... and yet it all made her feel sad and helpless, like she didn’t really have control.

It had been a week and a half since Sam's, _"oh by the way I'm not a girl,"_ email and Michele could admit she was still sulking and refusing to email (her-him) Sam out of spite; there was a fair amount of injured pride involved in it too.

She wouldn't have even written the chapter before her, but her head hurt so bad, and she knew, in a very out of the corner of her eye, unacknowledged way, that if she wrote the next chapter of her fricking drivel, her head would quit pounding.

She didn't like it, and she refused to examine the coincidence, because it didn’t make any sense.

Still ... the whole thing made her feel pushed around and trapped. Like an animal being trained to obey with a shock collar.  
Like she needed another reason to feel bitchy, confused, and a trifle miserable.

For what seemed like the millionth time, she opened Sam's last email, and her eyes found that one word.

Please.

It floated there, all alone, tugging at her resolve.

For a week and a half her son’s words had bounced around in her head, accompanied by that one word.

Please.

For a week and a half, her stupid bible app had pounded her with bible verses about forgiveness.

For a week and a half, she'd dreamed every night of Winchesters trapped in concrete cells. (She didn't need much help interpreting _that_ dream.)

For a week and a half, she'd immersed herself in real life and stayed away from fanfic.

For a week and a half .... she'd missed Sam.

But Sam wasn't who she thought she was. Sam was a guy; and coupled with his deception, she wasn’t comfortable with any of it.

....

Michele’s husband walked into the room and placed a coffee on the computer desk, beside her elbow.

"You're writing again?" He asked with a teasing smile.

"Yeah."

"So, when are you going to forgive your pet transvestite, private investigator?"

"I'm not." She snarked with a snort. "She-he lied to me. I don't talk to liars!” She pouted up at him like a child.

Her husband chuckled and leant down to kiss the side of her neck, making her shiver.  
"You will, you can't help yourself." He whispered in her ear.

"I can." She pouted again, shrugging him off. "...Besides husbands aren't supposed to want their wives talking to strange men on line."

"I think if I can trust you to go to ‘ _the library,’_ without succumbing to the temptation of strange men, I'm fairly safe trusting you to send emails to an American transvestite."

Michele felt her cheeks colour at the mention of the library incident.  
The worst bit was…. she'd laughed in the poor guy’s face when he'd asked her out.  
It had just _never occurred to her_ that she didn't have a sign painted across her forehead reading, "not on the market, wife and mother of four."  
The poor guy! He’d been so _mortified by her laughter,_ had hardly stopped long enough for her to explain that she was flattered, but _very_ married.   
Then, she'd gone and rung Phil and told him all about it.  
Phil has helpfully told him she’d scarred the poor bloke for life and he’d _never_ be brave enough to ask another woman out. Teased her the poor guy would end up all alone with just a pot plant for company because of her rejection.

Now, he ribbed her about it, _every time_ she visited the library, the few times she'd seen the poor guy, he'd fled in the opposite direction. Which made her feel awful!

"I don't like you, right now," she sniffed.

"But you _do_ love me." Her husband’s grin was smug.

Ignoring him she posted Chapter 11.

"Poor Sammy, you're a mean spiteful woman, punishing him for telling the truth.  
Poor, poor Sam." Her husband teased.

"If you love him so much, you write to him, then."

"Dear Sam, my wife is a stroppy wench, but she still wuvs you and she'll forgive you… eventually. Because she's a bleeding heart for waifs, strays and American transvestites."

...ooo0ooo...

It took another week and two more chapters for her to crumble.

…..

Hi Sam,

So, your chromosomes don't match....

I think I'm over the shock now. I'm mortified of course, and you're a prick. *pout*  
My hubby says that I can't be mad at you for telling the truth.  
I guess… I just sort of assumed, and you let me *glare* and by doing so made an ass of you and me!  
Don't do it again, ok?! I don’t like being misled. In the pursuit of a new era of transparency in our communications I think you owe me a photograph, now. Containing yourself, and proof the photo’s real.... a bottle of milk and a local American paper should do nicely, I think.

-MC2

….

By that point she just wanted Sam to say something, "I wish I was Sam Winchester….Or maybe not.  
Maybe just your story's just really weird now."

Was Sam still reading her story? She didn’t know, most of her readers were in America. It wasn’t like Slovenia, where Cat lived.

Sam didn't reply.

A week went by and Sam didn't reply.

School went back, and the appointments that came with having an autistic kid ramped up.  
Life continued, Michele collected a few more ficwriters and wrote more drivel.

And yet.... Every time she checked her emails she had that little hope, and every time it died.

She tried not to admit it, but she missed Sam, and she was a bit worried about him.

Maybe it was the awful dreams she kept having of being locked away in a tiny concrete cell. Trapped and alone. Tormented by nebulous thoughts that weren't exactly hers. Regrets she couldn't comprehended.  
Sometimes she'd see a tally on the wall and she knew, it was the amount of time since she heard from Sam.

  
  
Sometimes she woke crying, wishing, it would all just stop.

Then she would get up, push it all aside, and life continued.

But she couldn't let it go, so she sent him emails, occasionally, with stories she told her other ficwriters about life, the silly stuff, light in the darkness.

It was just cut and paste.  
An email once a week.

It was probably pathetic, not probably, it was....

But it was that one little word floating there all alone.

…Please…


	22. Blood on the Mouse

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 22: Blood on the Mouse**

"No!" Michele choked starring horrified at the words on the screen.  
"No, no, no!” blood dripped from her nose, “I won't," she moaned, wiping at the blood with the back of her hand and ignored the growing splatter down the front of her shirt.  
She wanted to say, "you can't make me," she wanted to be defiant.

But ... after two days of blinding pain and repeated visions of the scenes in the document, the document she'd deleted 3 times already... only to write it all over again, word for word.

Well, the painful truth was, whatever this thing driving her was.  
It _could_ make her.

Two days, and now she couldn't even remember why she'd objected, this moment was her last struggle. Her last bit of defiance.

Did she care that much about the people reading her drivel? She knew most of them had read worse, it wasn't like she'd be corrupting the innocent would she?

No, it was more that it was like TOB, once people read it she’d be guilty.

Complicit in something, in creating those deaths.

A nun, two priests.

Somehow, she'd convinced herself if she just didn't send the words out into cyberspace, three people, not characters, but people with lives would somehow keep living, suspended.

So, she'd refused. For two days, she'd refused.

But it made no sense.

They-were-fictional-characters-for-forkssake.

Michele stared down at her hands and watched the scarlet gore patter soundlessly into her upturned palm.

Then, it was almost as if someone grasped her chin, raised it with a gentle hand, and her eyes focused on the photos of her family hanging on wall.

Michele gave in, she clicked that last box to send the words into space.

The pain drained away and the blood stopped dripping from her nose.

Michele sat for a long time, staring helplessly at the smears of her blood on the keyboard and mouse.


	23. Talkin in my Sleep

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 23: Talkin' in my Sleep**

Sam Winchester woke gasping from a shallow sleep.

Vomited out of dreams of being trapped in the cage with Lucifer, to the reality of being trapped in a cell.  
Alone.

His lungs just couldn't seem to draw oxygen from the air.

But no one cared and no one was coming. He was alone.

Sam had always thought he was a man who found silence soothing, until now. But he'd never known silence -absence like this.

It ate at him.

This wasn't the silence of sitting on the impala’s hood drinking beer with Dean as the stars wheeled overhead. This wasn't the silence of paging through dusty books in forgotten library basements. This wasn't the silence of waiting for something evil moving through the darkness.

Those were living silences.

The silence in the cell, was dead.

This silence wanted to assimilate him, turn every thought in his head to ash and blow it away.

He was losing it. Every good thing was slipping away, becoming faded and dusty.

He wanted to hold on to the memory of Deans laugh, the weight of his brother’s hand on his shoulder, the way his eyes would light up with life and humor.

In the cage, it was the one thing Lucifer couldn't take.

But here, here those things were turning into shadows in his mind. They were losing all weight and color, beneath the weight of the silence.

And the Bad, the mistakes, regrets, and worries, they reflected back on him.  
Circling his head ever tighter. Stuffing themselves into his mind’s eye, with their muffling silent whispers.

Sam thought of his brother trapped in a cell so close, but an eternity away, and tried to push the darkness from his mind.

Dean was living with this too, Dean who couldn't stay still, who needed loud music and the open road, Dean who gloried in action.  
If this was killing him, what was it doing to his big brother?  
Was Dean even still alive?  
Would they even tell him Dean was gone?  
Maybe they weren't torturing Sam, but maybe somewhere they were hurting his brother.

Sam fisted his hands in his greasy hair, tugging till the pain was louder than the silence.

Songs were gone, poetry has fled, all the beauty of words.  
But somehow, one thing remained.  
There was an irony in it, for the man who never wanted to be a hunter. When all else left him in the emptiness.

The Latin words of an exorcism remained.

And so, in a desperation to hold back the silence, Sam began, with a voice rusty and frayed with disuse to recite the words of an exorcism.

…ooo0ooo…

"You're speaking in tongues in your sleep now." Michele's husband informed her holding up her phone. "I thought, you might like to hear it."

Michele eyed her husband warily. "Umm really? Why didn't you wake me…. sorry."

"It was like you were practicing a speech or something, I'm sure you said it four times, which is why I had time to record it."

Frowning, less in annoyance than puzzlement, her husband played the sound file.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica. Ergo, omnis legio diabolica, adiuramus te...cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum propinare...Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciæ, hostis humanæ salutis...Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei; contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine...quem inferi tremunt...Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine. Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos."

Michele pursed her lips, "Weird... It's Latin, I think."

"Latin? More than ten years of marriage, and now I find out you speak Latin."

"No, well no, not really. I know a bit from bible study stuff, and the scientific taxonomy thing. It sounds like Latin…I guess it just all got mixed up in my brain with a whole lot of gibberish. It can't _really_ be Latin."

Her husband studied her face thoughtfully, then shook his head and gave her a goofy grin. "Marrying a smart woman... I never thought she'd wake me up at night by spouting Latin. I don't mind you waking me up in the night my love, I just like it when you use your mouth .... less verbally." His eyes took on a wolfish cast, and she knew his upstairs brain wasn't driving anymore.

Snorting in irritation, she pushed him out of the bedroom door, before he finished the thought.

"Give me my phone and go take a shower, you. A cold shower! We haven't got time this morning, you know that!”

Hubby dispatched to the shower, Michele sat back down on the side of the bed and stared at her phone.  
Finally, she allowed her unease to surface.  
Talking in her sleep was hardly new, she'd always done it, according to her Mum.

Spouting Latin.

That was new.

So, if it wasn't gibberish, if it actually made sense? That _could_ be described as speaking in tongues.

She was a Christian, she believed in speaking in tongues... umm theoretically.  
She was a scientist too though, and scientists believed in evidence.

Michele looked down at her phone weighing it in her palm trying to decide which way to jump.

Was it evidence?

She could ignore the whole thing, shove it into ‘the box’ with all the other unnerving bits of her current life.  
Or, she could find out, if what she was spouting in her sleep was actual Latin.

Because if she was speaking Latin in her sleep that meant something, didn't it? .... And not that she was stressed and owned four kids.

Speaking of which.  
Two slightly sheepish daughters appeared in the doorway carrying bits of paper looking anxious.

"Ummm, we forgot to give you the notice..."

"And the money has to be in today..."

Michele sighed deeply, "How much is it? Give me the forms here so I can fill them in, and go get my wallet."

…ooo0ooo…

The Slovenian Cat was a student of Latin and Greek.  
Michele tapped her fingers restlessly against the sides of her phone.  
Cat loved language, but worried she'd bitten off more than she could handle, with her current topic of study.  
Cat wasn't religious, and Michele found the idea of wanting to study Latin without using it to study biblical text, oddly astounding, like stumbling on a blind person learning to sculpt.  
Her frame of reference was just … so different. But it inspired awe.  
Michele didn't know much, but she figured, a Slovenian that could write and read English as competently as Cat did, (and keep up with Michele's rather hopscotch interpretation of the English language,) was probably pretty darned amazing with languages.  
"It's all Greek to me." She'd tell Cat when Cat complained about the intricacies of her study topic.

They shared a love of photography, cats and fanfic.  
Had Progressed from reviews, to PMs, to emails, then messenger .... So now, Michele had a Latin scholar at her fingertips, all she had to do was ask.

  
....

**8:00AM**   
**Good evening Cat, how was your day? I hope it was kind.**

Catarina, 8:02AM  
Hey. Good morning M.  
Yes, it was, mostly.  
I had fun taking photos outside, we had a lovely sunny day. How was yesterday for you?

 **8:03AM**  
 **Busy, mostly kid stuff. My life's always mostly kid stuff. -shrug-**  
 **Umm Cat….. if I send you a sound file, do you think you could tell me if it's Latin (or anything else you recognize.) And if it makes any sense …. what it says? Please, please, please?** "

Catarina, 8:04AM  
Yes, of course my friend.  
Send it to me.

The minutes ticked by and Michele fidgeted, wondering what was Cat was thinking.

Catarina, 8:20AM  
Yes, it is Latin.  
Is this for your story?

**8:21AM**   
**It means something?**

Catarina, 8:23AM  
It's an exorcism, is it not? 

Michele blinked and bit her lip wondering what Cat would say if she wrote, 'No, that's me talking in my sleep.'

Catarina, 8:27AM  
The translation is: "We exorcise you, every impure spirit, every satanic power, every incursion of the infernal adversary, every legion, every congregation and diabolical sect. Therefore, diabolical legions, we adjure you. Cease to deceive human creatures, and to give to them the poison of eternal damnation; Be gone, Satan, inventor and master of all deceit, enemy of man's salvation. Be humble under the mighty hand of God; tremble and flee when we invoke the Holy and Terrible Name at which those down below tremble. From the snares of the devil, deliver us, O Lord. That Thy Church may serve Thee in peace and liberty to serve, we ask Thee, hear us."

**8:30AM**   
**Cat you're a wonderful friend, do you know that?**

Catarina, 8:31AM  
No problem. As exorcisms go, that is a pretty good one.

**8:32AM**   
**Are there bad ones?**

Catarina, 8:33A  
Yes, you cannot put Latin together any old way. Some of it in the fan-fictions is rather laughable.

**8:35AM**   
**Well I only want people laughing at my bad puns, not my bad Latin, hence expert help, from the other side of the planet no less.**   
**Thanks a million!**   
**Oh, Gahds look at the time! You oughta be asleep!**

Catarina, 8:37AM  
Yes, I need to go get some sleep…  
Oops!

**8:38AM**   
**Oops indeed!**   
**Sorry for keeping you up!**   
**G’Night Sweet pea, sleep sweet.**   
**You're soo my favouritist Slovenian wonder scholar *Hugs*"**

Catarina, 8:40AM  
It is always a pleasure, M.  
No apologies necessary, I keep myself up!  
Night night. I hope your Tuesday will be a good one  
Lots of hugs

A picture of a cat asleep on a pillow, snoring popped up in the chat box, making Michele smile.

……

Once Cat was gone Michele scrolled back up and stared at the translation. An exorcism?  
Oh God!  
Quite literally.

But after a while of musing on it, Michele shrugged, she'd probably read it in one of the Supernatural books or a fanfic.  
The brain was a weird thing. It puked up bizarre things, when left alone long enough to percolate.  
Score one for hanging out with fictional Winchesters, apparently, it taught you Latin exorcisms, or something that sounded like one.

Michele wondered briefly what would happen to her 8-year-olds principal, if she heard the sound file. The thought was more than a bit amusing .

Maybe she should ask the hubby to make it into her ringtone.  
Arrange for him to call her next time she had a meeting with the woman. If only she could blame possession, for that awful woman’s weasel words and politicking. But alas, ‘Christo’ had never had any effect… Michele had tried it!


	24. Bound in Blood

**The Thing You Hate**

  
**Chapter 24: Bound in Blood**

He sat, staring at his hands, head bowed so his greasy brown hair half concealed his face.  
But Michele didn't need to see his face.  
For two months, every night, she had found herself here. Watching Sam Winchester suffer and slowly disintegrate.

A silent witness who understood nothing.

This was a partially lucid dream, she could wonder why.  
Why was it Sam, not Dean in the cell.  
Dean’s protective instincts resonated more with her own.  
If she was standing here watching Dean trapped, it would make more sense.

The symbolism escaped her. Unless Sam stood for her son, and the cell his autism.  
But why now? Now that she was finding some acceptance. Now that life with ‘the big A’ had found an equilibrium.

She knew she felt trapped by everything that was happening in her daylight hours.  
But why was her mind dragging Winchesters into it at all? Why not just throw her in the cell alone and lock the door? Or have some nameless dread chase her through endless corridors. Or the old time favourite, make her search fruitlessly for her children.  
Maybe, watch them be swept away, out to sea. Michele knew all the usual suspects of her unquiet mind intimetly.

Tormenting Sam to get to her, it seemed needlessly cruel, even for her overworked guilt complex.

Eventually in her nightly vigil, she had stopped trying to fathom why this dream haunted her.  
All she really wanted to do was free him.   
Or barring that, simply lay her hand on his head and tell him he wasn't alone, that he could get through it, whatever it was. Because that's what the Winchester brother’s story had done for her.

But she couldn't.

She was a silent watcher, nothing more.

She could feel his despair and loneliness, the leaching away of all hope, the way his soul curled deeper into a huddle with every tally mark gouged into the monochrome wall, of the monochrome cell.

She could witness his pain, but she couldn't touch it or him. She had no voice and no substance.

......

When the woman appeared in Sam’s cell Michele didn't know who was more surprised Sam or her.

Sam's look of flinching surprise morphed into horror.

"De-an!” he rasped.

"Howdy Sam." The dark woman's singsong tone was mocking as she did a full 360 of the cell.

For just a moment, the woman faced Michele and her eyes widened in surprise, like she could see her and recognised her.

For an eternal instant, those depthless eyes which held the end of all things studied Michele, her eyebrow raised and her lips twisted mockingly.

When she turned back to Sam her face showed nothing.  
"Nice place you've got here, Sam, though I don't suppose you get many visitors."

"Billie, why are you here?" Sam bit out the words.

"I've been having the most riveting conversation with your brother, Sam." The cat smile Billie favoured Sam with was malicious.

Her words hit Sam like a fist in the stomach, his face crumpled.

"D-Dean’s dead?" It was a broken whisper.

The woman, Billie studied Sam's pain in silence for a long time.

"Oh, big brother Dean’s not dead ... yet."

Sam's head snapped up, his eyes wide, hope and fear bleed from his hazel and blue eyes.   
Sam pushed off the bed and headed for the door.

Michele knew his knuckles had been bruised and skinned over and over already, from hours hammering against that intransigent slab of metal, he'd yelled till his voice had given out and still no one had come.

That route wouldn't get him any closer to his brother.

As if Sam had come to that realization too, he turned back to Billie, jaw clenched, eyes narrow and fists balled.

The deadly violence that poured off the large man in the enclosed space made Michele flinch, but the woman, Billie, merely smiled the same cocky amused smile.

"What're going to do, Sam."

Sam scowled. “Billie, why are you here?"

"While you've been," she waved her hand, "Dean’s been falling to pieces too, Sam. But he's also been planning, scheming and dreaming up deals."

"No ..."

"Dean's so predictable isn't he, Sam? Different song same dance." Her dark eyes gleamed with malicious enjoyment.  
"He's done it more than you know, Sam. When you got shot hunting that werewolf, he overdosed on pills just to beg me to bring you back.  
The irony was, you weren't even dead. It was all very Romeo and Juliet."

Sam's nostrils flared and his chin jerked up.

"This time, Dean wants me to kill you both."

Sam's jaw clenched and he stared at Billie his breathing harsh, waiting in silence for her to continue. Billie tilted her head to acknowledge her opponent.

"Then he wants me to bring you both back, once you're out of these cells, so you can escape."

Sam's mouth twitched with a half-smile, it would work.   
But there would be a catch.

"What's the catch Billie?"

Billie steeple her fingers in front of her lips her eyes twinkling.

"At midnight once you're out and have had your happy reunion. Dean dies for good and goes to the big empty."

"No!"

"I can see why you like it here Sam, it's so homey. But big brother Dean, he's not doing so well."

"No, Take me instead."

Billie favoured him with a predatory smile.

"Sam, I don't care which Winchester I take ...  
You two can decide, all brotherly.  
But I'm not leaving you any wiggle room. We make a pact, bound in blood. Break that and there's consequences, on a cosmic scale."

With a clenched jaw and a furrowed brow Sam nodded once.

"I'll just go tell Dean the good news, shall I?  
I'm sure he'll be overwhelmed with joy that little brother wants to flip a coin, or will it be paper, scissors, rock, do you think?" Billies voice was a purr of satisfaction.

Then, she was gone.

Sam began pacing like a caged tiger again, measuring the cramped confines of his cell floor with stilted paces. His jaw clenching and unclenching. His face alternating between hope and despair.


	25. Paper, Scissors, Rock

**The Thing You Hate**

  
**Chapter 25: Paper, Scissors, Rock**

****

The sounds and smells of the woods after so long in captivity were almost enough to make Sam Winchester feel drunk.  
Running at that easy ground eating lope, half a step behind and to the left of his brother through the dark, it was entirely muscle memory. A feeling of bone deep rightness.  
A repeat of a thousand other nights.

But this wasn't a thousand other nights.

This was the last night.

At midnight one of them would die for good and their soul would go to the empty.

So many times, Dean had sacrificed himself for Sam, this once Sam was determined to repay the favour.

Once would have to pay for everything.

"Dean!" He was panting more than he usually would, talking and running wasn’t going to work. Not for this.  
Talking at all was going to be an uphill battle with Dean, who, he knows, is trying to avoid this discussion indefinitely.  
"Dean stop." Sam leaned against a tree putting effort into looking done-in.

"Sam?" His brother stopped and walked back to him, his face a pale oval in the darkness.  
"Sam?" There was that hesitant quality in Dean’s voice, the one he got when he was worried about his little brother, but also thought he might get ambushed for his troubles. He wasn’t wrong.  
Sam stifled a pained smile.

"Sam, you hurt?"

"Nah, just two months in a box. Adrenalin crash after the soldiers, maybe." Sam slid down the trunk and sat, long limbs bent in an ungainly sprawl. A memory of the soldier he’d shot, clutching that first aid kit to his chest, groaning in pain surfaced briefly and he pushed it away.

"Sasquatch jack in a box. Terror of soldiers." Dean rumbled in a flimsy attempt at humor, and settling beside him.

"Dean, we gotta talk about this."

"Nothin' to discuss Sammy, my deal, I pay the dues."

Sam grunted. "It was Our deal, Dean." He held up the palm he raked the bolt across, to prove his point.  
"It doesn't have to be you Dean. I..." he found himself faltering "I don't want it to be you. Not, not again."

"Sammy…" God, Dean’s voice contained a world of feeling and exhaustion in one word, it made a lump form in his throat. "Sam, I can't do it without you... "

"And you think I can?" The angry denial ripped itself out of Sam’s mouth.

"Sam..." His brother's voice held no anger in return. He turned his face away in the darkness, and reached out blindly, resting his hand on the back of Sam’s neck, squeezed gently, once, before letting his arm fall away bonelessly.

"You gotta think about it logically," Dean’s voice was a gravel soaked whisper, full of tears he'd never admit to.  
"It's about which one of us can keep fighting, which one the world needs more. You're the best of us Sammy, always were."

"No!" Angry tears spilled down Sam’d cheek as he reached out and grabbed his brother arm.

"Yeah you are. You're smarter, you got more heart, 'n' you're a survivor Sammy.   
Me, not so much. I can't... I don' ..." a broken sigh. "You're the best part of me Sammy."

"no..."

"Yeah, Buddy it's gotta be me, use that big brain. Run the numbers."

"NO! You're wrong, you're the better hunter. People like you, need you, more! Can't you see that?! Why can't you see that? Damn it Dean!  
I make crap decisions, specially without you. Demon blood, Ruby.... Releasing the darkness..."

"Sam, you didn't mean..."

"I never do, that's my point!"

"We gotta move Sam."

"No! Not till this is decided."

"Seems neither one of us is gonna give." Frustration was beginning to creep into Dean’s voice. "I'm fresh outta coins to toss."

"Paper scissors rock, best of three."

Dean snorted at the suggestion, then he smiled, teeth white in the darkness. "No take backs Sammy, no pitching a bitch-fit. The person that wins, pays?" Dean stood and pulled Sam to his feet.

Sam eyed his brother in the darkness, barely daring to believe his brother would agree.

"No take backs, Dean. The person who wins, pays." He knew Dean so well, he always threw scissors, it was almost too easy.

....

"No!"

Dean chuckled. "Actually, yes, Sammy."

"But..."

"No bitch-fits, Bitch, I won. Deals a deal."

"Dean..." then a sickening thought occurred. "You hustled me! Jerk!"

"A person only gets hustled, if they're cocky about a sure thing, Sammy."

"You fucking Jerk. You've been hustling me for years!”

Deans rumble of laughter lit the darkness. "Bitch, only when it mattered.  
This matters. You'll get over it 'n' find some way to haul my ass outta the empty." With that Dean turned and began loping into the darkness.

Sam followed as he'd done all his life.

Constrained from arguing; every step and heartbeat carrying him towards an end he couldn't see a way past.


	26. The Long Drive Home

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 26: The Long Drive Home**

  
The seven hour drive between the Rocky Mountain National Park and the Bunker was not a comfortable one for Dean.  
Every time he closed his eyes it was as if the events of their midnight appointment with Billie replayed themselves behind his closed eyelids.

He'd been ready to die, had steeled himself to it.  
Had almost welcomed it truth be told, except of course for Sam, standing beside him radiating pain on a subsonic level.

When Billie had asked. "So who's it going to be?" In her snarky tone, he'd hesitated for just a beat.

Not because he'd changed his mind, and not because he'd hoped Sam would offer.  
But for the old reason, that he didn't want to disappoint Sammy.  
Didn't want to leave him alone.

And in that moment, Mom had stepped in and answered in his place, one word that made the bottom fall out of the universe.

"Me."

After that, everything seemed to stutter to white noise, drowned out by the horror that his mother was going to sacrifice herself for him, just as Dad had done.

Why was everyone willing to die for him, but not willing to live for him?

He'd been pinned helpless, watching, like a four-year-old crying for his Mommy.

As Mom raised the gun to her head and cocked it.

"I love you," she'd come back, just to leave with a bullet to the head, why did people say they loved you in those moments?  
When they were leaving.

Then Cas had shoved his angel blade through Billie.  
“Cas, what have you done?" He'd found himself demanding.

  
_Cas, Cas, rhymes with ass,_ his mind sung over and over childishly, while his stomach plunged with dread.

  
"What _had_ to be done. You know this world, this sad, doomed little world, _it needs you._  
It needs every last Winchester it can get, and I will not let you die.  
_I won't let any of you die._ I won't let you sacrifice yourselves.  
You mean too much to me, _to everything._  
Yes, you made a deal. You made a stupid deal.  
And I broke it. _You're welcome."_

His last sentence was angry and defiant. As the angel had back at him from behind Billies body.

  
On one level, Dean could be thankful for Cas's actions.

  
He'd stopped Mom dying, stopped Mom from taking _his_ death.

  
But his diatribe was just another messy goodbye, another person stepping in and taking Dean’s death and twisting it to make it their own.  
‘… _Consequences on a cosmic scale_ ,’ didn't just go away because you ventilated the deal broker.

No, Consequences, they crept up on you and took a chunk out of your ass, when the dust had settled and you thought everything was fine.

  
There was a quiet sly voice at the back of his mind, that asked, if it wouldn't have been better if Mary had just gotten to pull the trigger.  
Mom had wanted to leave them, he’d seen it at Asa Fox’s wake.

Dean turned his face against the cold glass of the window, wishing for his Baby's soothing rumble to drown out all his thoughts.

  
...ooo0ooo...

  
The adrenaline crash hit, and Sam fell asleep after a surprisingly short time, once they'd all climbed back into Moms car. After Billie was dead.

  
Dean was alive, Mom was alive, and they were out of the _god-awful_ cells stuffed with nothingness.

  
Unfortunately, his mind didn't uptake all the information with a huge level of trust.  
His sleeping mind shunted him straight back into a cell with Lucifer, held down and tormented. With _that voice_ , mocking and chiding, telling him again that nothing outside the cage was real and that there was no escape. That there never had been.

  
He woke constrained and yelling, him mind refusing to let go or come back.

  
Then he registered Dean’s hand on one shoulder, Cas's on his chest and his mother’s faded-denim eyes staring at him, wide and frightened, like he might attack her.

  
Dean’s rumbling grumble of words articulated nothing, but they were the familiarity of forever.  
Anchoring him and calling him back.

  
Mary’s wary look however, made him realize how much they had insulated her from their fractured psyches.  
She didn't know what he’d been through... and Sam didn't want her to know.

  
A moment of guilt stabbed through, he also _never_ wanted her to know his first thought, when she had offered herself in Dean’s place.

It hadn't been panic or horror, like Dean’s had obviously been.

  
It had been pure joy.

  
The thought he'd swap her a million times over for Dean, _and consider himself lucky._

He was the worst son imaginable, he had to do better.

  
...ooo0ooo...

  
Michele woke naturally feeling rested and somewhat puzzled, for the first time in weeks she hadn't dreamt, not of Sam Winchester in a cell, not of anything.  
Deeply surprised, she grabbed her phone to check the time and discovered it was nearly 7am.

 _Wow_! when had that last happened? Everyone was up but her.

The faint sounds of squabbling daughters and the microwave beeping found their way through closed doors, a mostly cold cup of coffee and two slices of petrified toast spoke of how long everyone else in Casa Chadwick had been on the move.

  
Checking her phone, Michele felt real pleasure in seeing an email from The Smartest Kid in The Room, who it turned out wasn't a kid at all, but another mother of twins.

  
Sipping cold coffee Michele read of four-wheel drive adventures in the great man playground of mud, (her hubby's idea of a romantic weekend away apparently,) with an amused smile. Her friend’s description of her hubby being freakin’ adorable made her smile. nearly as much as her uncharacteristic lie in.

  
Yeap, men thought they were all big rough and tough, but they were all just little boys under that, really.

  
And that thought brought her back to American Sam, thinking of him made her sad. She really couldn’t help feeling like she’d done something wrong.

  
Mused winsomely that _really_ , she ought to give up on him, there was such a thing as admitting defeat with grace, and _that point was probably a month back_ , she told herself with a large dose of self-mockery and a sigh.

  
When you have four kids and a husband, who is usually your least grownup child, time dwelling angstily on electronic imaginary friends is usually short.

  
Today's special feature was her husband doing the, " _the post shower, I'm so sexy you want to ravish me strut,"_ which truth be told, actually, always just made her want to roll her eyes, laugh and throw a pillow at him rather than rip his towel off.

  
Men! There was no understanding them. But they certainly made life more interesting, of that Michele was sure.

  
…ooo0ooo…

  
There was silence in the bunker. Even with the door to his room open Sam couldn’t settle or sleep, despite a belly full of real food, a shower so hot his skin was still slightly pink and more than a few stiff drinks.

Grabbing the new phone Cas had given him, Sam decided to take a walk outside and set it up properly.

Looking into Dean’s open bedroom door Sam found it empty.

  
No, it was going to be a long time before either of them could settle peacefully.

  
…...

  
Sam looked up at his brother’s form silhouetted against the curve of earth above the bunker, and smiled to himself as he picked his way up the slope and settled a few feet away, back to a tree.

  
Neither of them spoke, they just sat in silence listening to each other breath and the world continue turning. It was enough.

Sam slid his new phone out of his pocket, and continued making it his own.

Dean took out a bottle of whiskey from his inside jacket pocket and continued to make _that_ his own, in slow thoughtful sips.

  
When he’d finished setting up his email, Sam was a little floored by surprise.

  
“Huh!?”

  
Dean glanced at him questioningly.

Holding up the phone Sam showed his brother his inbox; blinked at his brother and felt a slow smile ease onto his face.

  
“Hobbits man! They don’t give up, do they?” Dean rumbled with a raised eyebrow.

  
“I... I guess not.”


	27. Samwise Frickin Gamgee

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 27: Samwise Frickin Gamgee**

****

They'd sat for hours on the slope of the hill, swapping the bottle of whiskey back and forth, while Sam read out the emails from the other side of the world.

  
It was mildly comforting that real life had continued, made up of moments of mundane humour, which had flowed onwards while they'd been locked away.

Each email was like a stepping stone across the drowned lake of nothing that was the past two months.

Each moment, of simply being together, looking out and down at the open space which stretched below them; feeling the breeze, and smelling the earth and the vegetation crushed beneath their boots. All that helped to reaffirm that they were going to be okay, even if they didn't entirely feel it right then.

Dean mostly just listened in silence, drinking steadily, with snorts, grunts and the odd chuckle thrown in.

Now, Sam had finished reading.

"She was pissed at you, you drop off the radar for two months an' she _still_ kept writin' to you." Dean summarized.

"Uh, yeah."

"Your hobbit's S'mwise frickin' Gamgee. Loyal, persistent an' sorta dim." Dean’s voice held mockery, but with a hint of respect buried in there.  
He frowned tipping the empty bottle, "Ya drunk all m' whiskey Sammy."

"I'm pretty sure you drunk most of it, Dean." Sam found his way to his feet and offered his brother a hand up.

" 'm fine Sam." His brother muttered knocking his hand aside, and achieved vertical unaided.

Sam followed his brother down the slope, ready to reach out and grab him in the event whiskey, uneven terrain and gravity dared to conspire and prove Dean’s high functioning alcoholism skills were impaired by going dry for two months.  
Uncomfortably, Sam wondered how rough going dry had been on his brother.

It wasn't until they were going down the bunkers metal stairs, that Dean stumbled.  
Sam grabbed him, and shoved him firmly under his arm.  
For a second Dean went still, then glanced up and sighed, his mouth worked as he swallowed down some emotion.

" 'm _tired_ Sam." He said finally.

"Yeah, okay, bed then."

His brothers face formed the, ' _I don't want to_ ,’ pout so he waited, expecting Dean to shove him away. But Dean didn't .

"Baby..." he requested petulantly instead.

Sam drew breath to argue, then figured, _screw it._

"Yeah okay." Stopping for a pillow, blanket and bottle of water, Sam walked his brother to his beloved impala, all the while thinking how crazy it was, that he was putting his brother to bed in the car when his bed was closer.

….

Dean settled into the back seat, and Sam turned to leave.

"S'mmy?" His brother’s pale green eyes stared up at him owlishly.

Sliding into the front seat with a sigh Sam rubbed at his eyes, "Yeah, Dean?"

Dean’s eyelids started to droop closed, then he rolled over pressing his face to the leather like a child.

With a huff of mixed exasperation and amusement, Sam hauled his leaden limbs out of the car, leaving his brother in his happy place.  
As he turned to go, Dean muttered something.

Sam could have sworn it sounded almost like.  
"S'mmy don' ever say ya love me." But he must have misheard, even for drunk Dean, that was a weird sentence.

Making his way back to his own room, Sam pulled out his phone again.  
Opening the fanfiction website, he contemplated Michele's story without opening it for a long time. It had grown to 24 chapters.

  
The drive to read her words, balancing his foreboding over what he might read.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam lay on his bed, face illuminated by his phone screen trying to process everything he'd read; it was like his brain stalled every time he tried.

His feelings were too mixed, and seemed to cancelled themselves out.

He chewed on his bottom lip feeling more than a little uncomfortable, Michele had repeatedly called her writing drivel, but somehow, it felt more invasive than anything Chuck had written about them.  
Sharper and more cutting.  
A violation.  
It raised his hackles, and part of him wanted to hit out.

But how could he? How could he feel resentment or anger towards someone who seemed to have no choice, didn’t know what she was doing and did the same thing to herself.  
She seemed troubled by morals and ethics to the extent she would quite literally, rather bled, than write of the atrocities Lucifer had performed.

  
Sam had lied to her, while she offered the him her truth.  
And there was so much…. _Kindness and gentleness_ in the way she approached the world.  
She hadn't given up on him, had kept sending him emails, even when he gave her nothing in return.

She had... _missed him._

Her life had been normal, until it touched his. All he had given her was deception, but she still tried .... to be kind to him.  
To give some stranger light in the darkness.

She wasn't just a kid in a minefield, she was a kid in a mine field handing out fricking girl scout cookies, and he'd been eating it up.

Opening her photo, Sam stared at the woman's face and wondered exactly what the fuck he was going to do.

At some point he fell asleep, still trying to answer that question.

…ooo0ooo…

Michele sat curled on the couch in the darkness, reading through ‘The Thing You Hate,’ chapter by chapter, feeling like she was reading something someone else had written.

She was tired, _oh so tired_ , but she couldn’t rest.

Tonight, there was no drive to write, either. Which was why she found herself, _really reading_ the thing that was slowly eating away at her life, for the first time.

She’d always thought of herself as a person who found meaning in the shape of life. But in this, there didn’t seem to be much meaning or reason.

Her mind wandered back to one of the first emails Sam had sent her, and remembered his words about her not escaping as easily as she’d hoped; there was a small bitterness there now.

To think, Sam had once called her a nice normal person.

It was no wonder he had stopped writing to her!  
  
She wondered uncomfortably whether it might be possible to kill her AU self with a brain aneurysm or something and end the story.  
Whether that would free her from it, and the horrible compulsion to write.  
Or whether writing her fictional self’s death might lead to her real death.  
A bitter laugh burst our of her, fracturing the middle of the night stillness.

  
That was _insane_! TTYH was _just a story_ , no matter how much of her life had made it’s way into it.  
 _Sam Winchester_ was _definitely_ just a made up character! Magic and all that stuff were likewise fictional, there weren’t any real curses or monsters.  
Life might be filled with bad stuff, sure, but you realized as you grew up; good and evil weren’t black and white, things were blury, and came in shades of grey.  
Real life was inhabited by the kind of evil you couldn’t banish, or salt and burn. It came from everyday human failings; misunderstanding, malice and selfishness, real evils which came with that annoying small e.


	28. What You’re Supposed to Do

**The Thing You Hate**

  
**Chapter 28: What You’re Supposed to Do**

Sam woke with a jerk to the feeling of being watched, sliding his hand under his pillow he gripped the gun he'd placed there the night before.

Mary stood, hovering awkwardly in his doorway.

He relaxed, letting his hand slide away and sat up.

"I brought you some coffee" she offered, took a step closer but seemed hesitant to enter the room.

Reaching out a hand he knocked his cellphone off the bed to the floor, in his rush.  
Finally, she took the gesture as permission to enter, came closer to hand him the cup, then backed away again to perch on his desk chair. Held the second cup in front of her in two hands looking awkward.

Sam offered her a hesitant smile, feeling oddly that Mary could startle and flee at any moment; he took a sip of his coffee and was surprised to find that the coffee wasn't black as he expected, but the way he preferred it.  
His surprise must have shown on his face.

"Thanks." He murmured.

"Castiel, he informed me, that is how you prefer your coffee.” Mary told his with a slight quirk of her lips. “And this," she lifted the other untouched cup, "is how Dean prefers his... but he's not in his room..." There was that hesitancy in his mother’s voice again. Questions not quite asked.

"Dean slept in the car last night, the impala. She... uh, it, is..." he faltered, "she was the closest thing to a home we - Dean had for most of his life." Sam tried to explain, while his mother’s face took on a tense cast once more, "that place...it's just going to take us a bit to reacclimatise, ya know Mom." He tried to explain.

Mary shot him a quelling smile and nodded, something in it held echoes of Dean, prompting him to smile more naturally in return.

"So, do I...?" She wavered.

"Nah, he'll come out when he's ready, he had a lot to drink last night, being dry for two months, I think he'll be a bigger jerk than usual if anyone pokes at him before he's ready."

"Okay." She looked down at the cup and took a sip of the coffee she‘d made for Dean glancing at him again nervously, "I have a few errands to run, so I'll leave you to it." She stood to leave.

"Mom?"

Mary Winchester turned and looked over at her youngest son.

"Thanks.  
Dean, he was going too... and I'm not sure I could have lived with him doing that... then you stepped in and ... And I know Cas' stopped it, thank god he did... I'm overwhelmed with gratitude that he did, believe me! But ... well you were willing to do that, for, for us," his voice betrayed him by going husky "...and, just thanks." He took a deep breath feeling his eyes burn with emotion.

Mary looked at him with an oddly sad smile.  
"It’s what mothers are supposed to do for their children." She told him quietly, a slight frown pinching her brows.

Then she turned, and left without another word.

…ooo0ooo…

4:00PM  
Hi Peachy girl how was your day?

**Peaches, 4:01PM**   
**Mm nothin' special, how about you?**

**4:03PM**   
**Mr 8 and autistic had a dentist appointment today. So you know ..... awful.**

Michele sighed, looking away from her phone towards her son’s room where she had left him, curled up under a blanket recovering.  
Dentist visit’s were a combination of everything her son loathed, strangers touching him, bright light, horrible noises, tastes that make him gag. A tortuous experience for them both.  
She had to stay calm, be strong, and act as his rock.  
Act like what he was going through was no big deal…. That it was okay, and necessary.

It ripped her heart out in ways nothing else did, and required more bravery on her part. Knowing the person she loved most was experiencing his own kind of hell, knowing that only his love and trust of her held him there; trying so desperately to be brave.  
He had lain there shaking, pale as milk, with silent, terrified tears leaking from his amazing eyes, all the while holding her hand and trusting her. It has been all she could do, not to drop to her knees and wail "I'm not worthy,” in the face of her son’s raw trust, when faced by his physical nightmares made real.

Peaches, 4:09PM  
Speaking of suffering, I have something to cheer you up, I'm almost done with DWY chapter 5

**4:10PM**   
**Really? Yay**

**4:10PM**   
**….Dewey decimal…**   
**That comments not as random as it sounds. DWY sounds out as Dewy, which now, makes me think of Dewey the library cat…the mind chases things weird places doesn’t it.**

Peaches, 4:11PM  
Yep… I need to write a HWY and a LWY as well, I guess

**4:12PM**   
**Hu?**

Peaches, 4:13PM  
Sound it out, you'll get it…

**4:14PM**   
**Ohhh, Hewy, Dewy and Lewy, as in Daffys nephews?**

Peaches, 4:15PM  
Yip, I didn't think this chapter was going to have much in it, but I've made it to 1.5k words.

**4:16PM**   
**That’s a good amount. They say between 1 and 5K is a usual novel chapter size.**   
**Cougar says that between 1 and 3K is fic-usual, shorter and readers feel cheated… longer and they get bored. Me personally I don’t get bored I always want moorrreee. Feed me Seymore! Tehehe**

Peaches, 4:17PM  
This was only going to be like 3 mini chapters.

**4:18PM**   
**I speak for all your many readers, when I say, I like it when you get carried away -grin-**

Peaches, 4:19PM  
Haha. How’s your story going?

**4:20PM**   
**It appears to be letting me have a break, and I'm enjoying the peace.**

Peaches, 4:20PM  
Stories can be pushy, can’t they?

**4:21PM**   
**Ahhh sweetpea you have no idea....**   
**Sooo... how far off posting are you?**

Peaches, 2:21PM  
Uh, I have like 1 more line to write, then I'll go back reread and edit.

**4:22PM**   
**-Bounces on toes impatiently, like a little kid-**   
**I'll let ya concentrate then…. All the sooner to get what I want!**

…ooo0ooo…

  
Sam followed his brother into the War room carrying his mug of coffee.

  
Dean had walked out of the kitchen the moment Cas had walked in.

Again.

It was exhausting, and Sam was beginning to feel like he needed to step in.  
Mom was gone again, which left him with one thundercloud and one, whatever the heck Cas was right now.

Dean was starring moodily at the board with all Cas's Kelly Kline research pinned to it.

"Yeah, I was looking at that earlier." He sighed. "Cas has been busy, huh?"

"Yeah, busy, not finding Kelly Kline or her Rosemary's baby,” Dean muttered scathingly.

Sam sat down and stared at his brother wondering what he was supposed to do. Dean was being uncharacteristically mulish with Cas.

"I mean, how's a chick like this just drop off the map?" he grumbled.

"Well, I think… that's what he's trying to figure out." Sam set his coffee down and leaned back, hands on knees, trying to think of a way to begin the looming, Cas talk.’

"Hey, you, uh, you hear from Mom yet?"

"Yeah, she called last night, said she's got a line on a shapeshifter in Atlanta." Dean paced over and leaned against the map-table. "I said we could come help, and she said, “Don't bother”" he raised his hands in exasperation. "Apparently, she's ‘got it!’” he made air quotes sounding slightly aggrieved by not being invited to the party, took a mouthful of coffee to take away the bad taste.

He chuckled ruefully. "Then, she's probably got it."

"Ye-ah." His brother snorted with a replying humorless laugh.

"Mom's good."

"I just think she jumped back into this a little quick, don't you?"

"I don't think we have the kind of mom who's gonna stay home and make us chicken soup for dinner, you know?" Sam tilted his head with a small huff of amusement.  
"You talk to Cas yet?"

"No." Dean scoffed.

"So, what? You're just gonna keep walking past each other in the kitchen, not saying a word?"

"Maybe." Dean took a gulp of coffee and looked away, lips pursed.

"Look, yes, Cas killed Billie. But _he saved us._ He saved Mom. How long are you gonna stay pissed?"

“I'm not pissed that he cares about us, you know. I'm -- I'm grateful." Dean finally looked Sam in the eye, Sam looked back, waiting for him to continue. "But Billie said there would be “cosmic consequences” if that deal got broken. You have any idea what that means?"

"No."

"Neither do I, but I'm pretty sure it ain't jellybeans and cheese-strings."

"My point is, Cas thought he was doing the right thing." Sam looked up at his sibling hopefully, brow furrowed.

"I was, doing the right thing." Cas's gravel voice broke into the conversation, as he walked down the stairs into the warroom.

"You sure about that?" Dean grated with his face turned away not looking at his friend.

"Yes."

"Yeah?  
Well, I'm not so sure. And when the other shoe drops --"

"I'll deal with it." Cas broke in, Dean made unconvinced sound.

"I have to go."

"Got a lead on Kelly?" Sam asked hopefully.

"No. This is personal."

"Meaning what?" Dean challenged.

"Another angel. An old friend. He called out for help."

"Ohhh, Good old reliable angel radio." Dean snarked, none of them were sure what had happened while they were locked away, but Dean had to try getting the hits in.

Cas ignored the jibe.

"He was begging for help, and then he just stopped. I need to know if he's still alive."

"Yeah, all right. Well... we'll come with you." Sam suggested

"Both of you?" Castiel asked.

Both, looked to Dean, who hesitated his lips parted trying to decide on his answer.

"Sure. Yeah, we could help.  
Gotta make sure you don't do _anything else_ stupid."

Cas sighed and looked away, hurt.

Sam gave his brother a look and sighed, he could always trust Dean to get the last dig in.

Dean lifted his chin and shot him a slightly flinching, but unrepentant smile.


	29. Cas has Some Regrets

**The Thing You Hate**

  
**Chapter 29: Cas has Some Regrets**

' _Angels, man, why is dealing with angels always such a pain in the ass,’_ Dean wondered as they drove towards the place where the One-eyed Willy chick that had it in for angels, was probably holed up.  
_Damn_ , that Ishim was a piece of work. It made his blood boil, to listen to the way he spoke to Cas, and to watch Cas just sit there and take it.

Yeah, he was mad at Cas, but mostly he was _scared for him,_ he knew he was being a bit of a douche. But he _needed_ Cas to understand, that they couldn't keep making these knee jerk decisions and breaking the fricking world.

Not for him, _he wasn't worth it._

Dean ran one hand through his hair and glanced at his brother.

"You email your little hobbit pen pal yet?" He asked.

Sam pulled a rather uncalled for bitch-face. "No, Dean.  
I don't know what to say.  
I tell her I’m a guy, then I drop off the face of the earth for two months? I don't want to lie to her and well, the truth..."

Dean hmphed thoughtfully. "So tell her you had a family business situation and you didn't have any access to email. Or…" he smirked, "you _could_ tell her you were arrested for exorcising Lucifer out of the American president an' spent two months in a top-secret government facility in solitary confinement.  
But everything's okay now, we made a deal with a Reaper, then our angelic buddy killed her... Well, we aren't actually sure everything's okay, still wonderin’ if our angel friend is gonna to get vaporised at some point.  
... But in the meantime we're off to try and talk down some chick namea Lilly Sunder, who looks kinda like Nick Fury, but real white; one our angel pal, and his ass-butt feathery buddies, turned all hyper vengeful by killing her Nephilim kid … about a hundred years ago.  
Actually, you can tell her your brother says he don’t mind if Patches ventilates all the other feathery sonofabitches, cos they're annoying dicks.  
But she can't have Cas!”

Sam was now giving him a spectacular bitch-face from the passenger seat.

"I'm _pretty sure_ she'll quit emailing you if you tell her all that Sammy.... Or, you can send her a nice little photo, like she asked and a weak-ass excuse. Totally up to you."

"It's not that simple, Dean."

"Sammy that's why you never get laid, _it is that simple_."

"I'm not _trying_ to get _laid_ , Dean!"

"You don't know what you're tryin’ to do Sam. That’s pretty much the problem.  
Either way, we're here.”

…ooo0ooo…

Walking around a corner of the building's hallway, they came face to face with Lilly Sunder.  
She gasped, and slid into a fighters pose, an angel blade in each hand.

"Whoa! Whoa!" Sam gasped and both Winchesters raised their hands to show they were no threat.

"Give us a second?” Dean asked, lifting his hands.

"How did you find me?" Lilly demanded

"We're here to talk, that's it. We come in peace.

Just hear us out.

We heard what happened to your family." Sam started to make their case.

"My family?"

"See, Cas is our family, so we can't let you hurt him." Dean chipped in.

"Let me?" Lilly scoffed.

"We don't wanna kill you." Dean stated, trying to sound reasonable.

"I don't wanna kill you." Lilly admitted, relaxing a little.

"Okay, good. Look, there we go. Agreed.

Listen, it's not Cas's fault that Heaven has these crazy rules about Nephilim."

Lilly just stared at Sam her face a little confused.

"Your _daughter_." Sam clarified with a frown.

" _You think..._ " Lilly’s voice broke and she exhaled stepping closer with her lips trembling. "Her name was May, and she was _beautiful_." The way Lilly said the name was like a caress, "I had a life, a wonderful life, until..." again her voice faltered.  
"They took everything from me. All my life, I dreamed about angels. I studied them. I made them my life's work, until finally I learned the spell to summon one -- Ishim."  
“When I first saw him, it was like looking into the face of the Divine.  
I thought he was perfect.  
_But he is a monster._  
**I had my daughter long before I ever laid eyes on an angel....** "

"Wait, so..." The brother’s faces had grew more uncertain with every passing word Lilly had said.

"My daughter was _human_." Lilly told them finally letting out a shaky breath.

"Just..." Dean cleared his throat uncomfortably holding up a hand. "Um..." looked at his brother. " _Are you buying any of this?"_ He asked in a low voice.

"Yeah, kinda." Sam confirmed quietly.

"All right, well, we gotta make sure, you know. I mean, Ishim's a tool, but .... _You know what? I'm gonna call Cas…_ " he pulled out his phone and dialed

" _Come on, come on, come on."_ The phone just rang, without picking up. "Yeah, he's not answering." Hanging up, Dean looked at his brother, worried.

"Okay. Just go. I'll stay here." Sam suggested.

"What? And leave you here with _her_?

You kidding me? She—"

" _She_ , is no threat whatsoever to humans. _And she, can hear you."_ Lilly said her voice lilting with a touch of humor.

"Okay." Dean muttered sharing another look with Sam, a look weighted with all his usual over-protective worry, but it might have acknowledged that Sam was capable.  
His worry for Cas, who didn’t know what he might be in for, won out.

"Okay." He muttered again as he turned to leave.

  
…ooo0ooo…

Sam watched Lilly gaze at a photo of her child wistfully. "Can I ask you a question?" He asked.

"Yeah."

"I-I get wanting revenge. _I-I really do_. But...why wait so long?"

"I had no choice. Before the angels fell, before they lost their wings, there would've been no way to hunt them down."  
"But now...  
Patience is a talent. You'd be amazed what a person can do with a little bit of purpose, and an abundance of time."

"Hmm." Sam looked away, trying to find a tactful way to ask the next, more important question.  
"Ishim said you made some kind of pact, um... that you're using dark magic." He looked down again, uncomfortable.

" _Did he?"_ Lilly asked, her lips pursed. "I've studied angels all my... very long life. I use their magic to fight, to hear them, to stay alive."

"Enochian magic?" Sam asled brows raised. "That's... _possible_?" Hope flared briefly, while the possibility’s unfolded in his mind.

"It is if you're willing to pay the price of admission." Lilly tapped her eye patch.  
"And... every time I use one of their spells, a piece of my soul burns away." She told him simply.

"And once it's gone...You won't feel anything anymore. You won't, uh, care about _anything_ … anymore. _You won't be human anymore."_ He said tasting memories of being soulless in the back of his throat, like bile. Any thoughts of Enochian magic turned to ash.

"I used to dream about my daughter every night. Do you know what I dream about now?" Lilly asked. " _Nothing_."

Sam looked down in the pause between words.

"You don't trust me. I understand. But when your brother confronts Ishim, the angel _will_ kill him,” Lilly continued making Sam looked up again and narrowed his eyes.

  
Lilly met his eyes.

"Ishim's a big man in heaven. He's got too much to lose if the truth comes out. And when your brother's dead… you won't stand in my way anymore. _You'll help me._ And for that, I can wait." Sam looked away, his mind racing, calculating possibility and weighing off the truth.

…ooo0ooo…

  
Sam and Lilly walked into the abandoned church just in time to witness the standoff between Ishim and Dean.  
Dean's hand hovered over an angel banishing sigil painted in his blood, but his eyes were on Cas's collapsed form across the room.

Sam knew before Dean’s hand fell away, what his choice would be. Daily he watched Dean choose strangers over himself, Cas was his best friend, their brother, family. There was no way he could risk an Angel banishing with Cas so weakened. There was no telling where he’d end up or if he’d survive.

Lilly’s yell made Ishim turn away from Dean.

The next few minutes were the usual adrenaline soaked blur, that made up a large portion of Sam’s life. They culminated with Cas plunging an angel blade into Ishim, just before he could do the same to Lilly.

….

  
They all stood around Ishim's still form, Lilly staring down at the charred silhouette of angel wings, burned into the floor like a nuclear blast shadow.  
Ishim’s empty vessel looked small and shrunken in death.

"All right, so, uh..." Sam exhaled a centering breath. "What now?”

"He's dead. _Are you done?_ " Dean challenged Lolly tensely.

"Revenge is all I've had for over a hundred years. _It’s what I am—“_ Lilly mused.

"Wrong answer.“ Dean snarled, “ _You're done!_ ”

"Dean." Cas sighed, then looked up at Lilly, his eyes full of weariness and regret.  
"I'm sorry. I was wrong. And... while it's true that I didn't know we were killing an innocent, ignorance is no excuse."  
Cas got to his feet and approached the woman, his hands clasped in front of him, face earnest and full of contrition.  
"I truly can't _imagine_ the depths of your loss.  
This was your _child_.  
_I can't imagine the pain_.  
So, if you leave here and you find that you can't forgive me...I'll be waiting."

The brothers watched their friend‘s battered face, barely daring to breath, while he stared at Lilly.

Cas was right, there was no making this right. Family… was everything.

" _Thank you.”_ Lillyanswered simply, her words a brush of forgiveness that left Cas looking battered on the inside and turned to leave.

…ooo0ooo…

  
Cas sat at the map table where he had slumped when they’d returned.

Carrying beer, both Winchester boys joined him.  
Dean slid Cas a beer, and clapped him gently on the shoulder.

"You earned it." He told him warmly, everything else forgotten in the aftermath.

Cas glanced up. "Well, this will do very little for me, but I-I appreciate the gesture."

Dean slid into a chair opposite Cas, and studied his friend.

"What Ishim said...You're not weak, Cas. You know that, _right_?" Dean sought eye contact but Cas looked down again.

"I mean, obviously, you've changed, but it's all been for the better, man,” Sam continued for Dean, from his perch on the map table beside Cas.

"And you have been with us every step of this long, crazy thrill ride.  
And no matter how crazy it got, you never backed down."

"And that takes real strength." Sam continued.

"Thank you." Cas said still looking away.

"Cas, I don't like how the whole ‘Billie thing,’ went down. _Okay_?"  
"I know you think you were doing the right thing."  
"And I'm not mad... _I'm worried,_ " Sam felt a moment of amusement, listening to his brother’s parental lecture, aimed at Cas of all people.  
"Because things like ' _cosmic consequences,’_ have a habit of biting us in the ass."

"I know they do." Cas acknowledged looking up finally "But I _don't_ regret what I did, even if it costs me my life." he gazed meaningfully at both brothers.

" _Don't_ say that, man." Sam muttered looking down at his beer

"So what are you gonna do, if you find Kelly and, uh, Lucifer Junior?"  
"It _is_ a Nephilim, right?" Dean bowled right into their next mess.

"Oh, no. It's _more_ than that."  
"An ordinary Nephilim is one of the most dangerous beings in all of creation.  
But one that's fathered by an archangel, the Devil himself?  
I...I can't imagine the power."

"But, Cas, at the end of the day, it's _a mom and her kid._ "  
"I mean, do you -- do you think you'll be _able to_..." Sam asked, he’d been thinking lately, that his life was filled with mothers and their children. It was almost a conspiracy.

"There was a time when I wouldn't have hesitated..."  
"But _now_ , I don't know." Cas shot them a rueful half smile

"What are we gonna do?" Dean asked.

"Let's drink,” Cas answered lifting his beer, “and hope we can find a better way." He added simply.

Sam took a swig of his beer and considered his brother and friend.  
Mothers and their children... it made him think of Michele, half a world away, he longed to ask Cas about her.

But found himself hesitating.

Cas had changed so much, it was true... but still, he worried that if the woman _was_ a prophet, Cas might feel honor bound to inform heaven, and let the angels take her into protective custody.

After reading all her emails and her fanfiction story, Sam was convinced Michele might forgive most anything, except forcing her leave her kids.  
…Besides, he told himself, she’d be safer away from angel politics. Pretty much everyone was, he thought sourly... _Including Cas._


	30. The Art of Cyber Stalking

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 30: The Art of Cyber Stalking**

_‘Sam’s being a sulky little emo bitch, premenstrual teenaged girls with bonus boyfriend issues gotta be less of hassle to live with!’_ Dean reflected sourly, as his brother checked his email again, for the millionth time in 10 minutes.  
Sam huffed and pulled a kicked puppy face, making Dean grind his teeth in irritation. _  
'Maybe I can send him to live with Jodie for a bit, He can sit round with Claire and Alex and be angsty with his own kind.'_

"Sam, would you just email her already." He grated slamming shut the book about angels he'd been attempting to read.

Sam turned the kicked puppy look on him.

"Sammy it's not that big a deal, what ya got to lose?"

Sam opened his mouth to speak, looked torn and closed it again, grinding his palm across eyes etched with shadows. Then, huffed and push his hair out of his face. "Its just complicated okay? I'm not sure..." Sam broke off.

Dean pulled the laptop over and considered his brother. "What's her name again?"

"Chadwick, Michele with one, L Chadwick.” Sam answered him with a put-upon huff.

"Yahtzee. Your pen pals on the great book of faces Sammy."

"Dean...!" His brother objected.

"Ahh and look at all that interesting info, that's the town where she lives.  
Her previous employer, her home town and what University she attended.  
Shall we go find her phone number and address from the online phone-book, can't be too many of them out there....  
Bingo that'll be your girl!  
Now we've got her address… let’s go have a look at her house on google maps Eh?" Dean shot his brother a grin, pleased with himself.  
"Well look at that, a lovely sign written vehicle in the driveway, Sammy.  
Hubby's ya think? And a silver people mover, want ta hazard a guess at the make and model.  
That'd be the family car no doubt.  
She's following two schools on Facebook, wanna bet that’s where her kids go.  
Wanna go look at the schools too Sam?" Dean raised an eyebrow at his younger brother clearly enjoying playing cyber stalker.

"Dean, stop.... I did all that okay?... I also looked at her birth and marriage certificates, medical files, her college transcripts, employment history, the property records on their house. Uh the ...works.  
She's what she says she is..." Sam admitted looking uncomfortable.

Dean hummed, surprised. "That's some quality stalking you’ve be'n doin' Sam.  
S-o what's left to be unsure about?  
She's a glorified pen pal, that may have a little somethin' somethin' mojo, it's not like your floating her a loan Sammy."

"Dean," Sam sounded tired, "just leave it okay, I really don't see why you care.  
We do have more important things to worry about.  
I'll... I'll handle it, you don't have to be a jerk.”

Sam cleared his throat.  
“Did Cas turn up anything on Kelly Kline yet?" It was a transparent attempt to shift the conversation, but Dean decided against pushing it.

"Nada.” He got up and wandered over to the whiskey decanter, surprised to see it was empty. "Looks like we need to go on a supply run."

Frowning Sam glanced at his watch "Dean... it's a bit...early? Isn't it...?"

"For a supply run, Sam? Hardly." Dean scoffed deliberately misinterpreting his brothers meaning. "You coming or what?"

...ooo0ooo...

Michele was having a good day, beginning with a lazy Sunday morning, the family had made it to church and out again, without meltdowns or dramas. Now with everyone fed, the toddler was napping and the rest of the family was in the lounge playing some online Minecraft thing. Apparently, it was so riveting it was even keeping the hubby occupied.

For the first time in days, a faint headache was beginning to gather. Hardly thinking about it now, Michele opened a file and began typing, letting the words flow through her and out to become a chapter. It was definitely much easier not to fight it.  
A small part of her marveled how something could become just another part of life, even if it made no sense.

It had been what? Four days, five? Long enough that one of her readers had sent her a message saying they really liked her story and they were looking forward to the next chapter, it had a feeling of Oliver Twist saying, "please sir, can I have some more," and she had been amused despite herself.

There was a weird symbiotic relationship between readers and writers on fanfiction, you could hardly call her writing process ordinary, and yet still, there was that 'thing' she'd laughingly called ficwriters ailment, the need to know someone was out there listening and reading. People's reviews and feedback were ….oddly comforting.

Was it the difference between bleeding out onto the floor and into a transfusion bag? Maybe, if even one person got something out of it there was some point to her discomfort. Some form of meaning, after all.

Besides, now that she'd actually read it and thought about it, TTYH was sort of... smart, now.  
Now there were actual Winchesters in it, you might mistake it for … not being a total pile of drivel. One reviewer had described it as unique (how funny was that? They had no darned idea how unique it was) and well, miracle of miracles there seemed to be a plot lurking in there. So that was good.

A rueful smile tugged at her lips. Was it a bit like child birth? Had she forgotten, so easily how unpleasant things had been only a short while ago?

It only took someone to cluck and coo over this thing that had ripped itself out of her with shed blood and pain and she found herself staring at it thinking wow, this is mine? Cool.

Of course, Michele thought, with a twist of cynicism which drained her humour, when a matricidal murder was born its mother probably looked at that child, who would in the fullness of time kill her, with big wondering eyes, filled with awe too.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam wondered why he'd suggested Dean make the supply run alone, they'd been irritating each other, true.  
Too much time rattling about together in the bunker like the last two peanuts in a can.

Nuts, yeah.

He knew they both had issues since West Guantanamo, they'd been huddled together like two kids afraid of the dark, scared to be alone.

Each resenting the need, and the weakness, and taking it out on each other.  
If Cas or Mom had been there, maybe it would have been different.  
But Mom and Cas were both off somewhere, only checking in occasionally. Meanwhile they were laying low. 

Strangely enough, there didn't seem to be any man hunt going on for them.  
You'd think there would be, considering they supposedly attempted to assassinate the President.

Of course, they were also 'recovering.'  
Ahh, recovering was such a polite term for Dean’s spiraling alcohol consumption.  
But he could hardly talk.  
Sam tipped the hip flask he'd found in his desk draw to his lips, and took a swig; head already buzzing.

But hey! Maybe he'd manage some alcohol induced sleep, sleep that didn't end with screaming himself awake at the feel of Lucifer’s hands holding him down, while that laughter echoed on in his head.

It was maddening, that now, now, Lucifer was locked up back in the cage, he was constantly haunted by flashback nightmares.

He'd always sworn he wouldn't travel down the road Dad and Dean had blazed, using alcohol to deal with life's crap.

Yet here he was.

He shoved the flask back in the draw with a huff and raked a hand through his hair restlessly.

  
He’d put on some music, to cut the silence, that might help.

He'd thought it would be good for both of them to have some space from each other, when he'd suggested Dean go on the supply run alone.  
Now Dean was gone and the bunker seemed unsettlingly silent, even with music playing.

Catching himself, just about to check his email again, Sam frowned irritated; it was no wonder Dean was on his case.  
It was also no wonder Dean didn't understand why he didn't just email her and send her a photo too.

Dean didn't know about, "The Thing You Hate." His glorified pen pal had seen far too much, and seeing a photo of him would probably send the whole house of cards tumbling down round both of their ears.

He'd told himself he wouldn't read her story again, after that first night back in the bunker.  
But with each hour Michele didn't email, wondering whether she was okay became more insistent.

With a shrug, he found his way to fanfiction and opened her story.  
And saw it had actually been updated a handful of hours ago. Sam felt himself relax.

"Well at least she's still alive." He muttered aloud to the deserted room, as if _it_ cared.

......

Sam looked away from Chapter 25, as the words seemed to blur before his eyes.

The Thing You Hate, she'd named the fricking story rather aptly he opinioned. Pinched at the bridge of his nose and rubbing his grainy eyes.

Fuck! He really didn't want to read this, he didn't want to relive those moments in the forest.  
He didn't want to feel it again.  
To remember Dean scamming away his life, with a stupid kids’ game.

  
Dragging the hip flask of whiskey from the desk draw once more, he took a few more gulps, along with a dozen deep breaths and trained his eyes back onto the words, like an act of self-flagellation.

Clicking over to the next chapter he read the first few lines, then stopped, froze and began chewing on his bottom lip, there were some things you shouldn't do.

Maybe, this was the reason he'd been so reluctant to tell Dean about this story.

His whole life he'd wanted to know what Dean truly thought and felt. Every word his brother said, every emotion he allowed to grudgingly leak through, was so guarded.  
He wanted more, he'd spent his whole life wanting  
more.  
And here it was. A window into his brother’s head.

It was a violation a betrayal, to knowingly read this, _but ohh fuck he so wanted to!_

Without really noticing, he drained the rest of the whiskey as he teetered on the brink of doing what he knew deep down he shouldn't.

........

Sam shuddered; looking inside someone's head was bad idea, especially when all you had to go on was a few scattered sentences. What did Michele mean by

 **_'He'd been ready to die, had steeled himself to it._ **  
**_Had almost welcomed it truth be told'_ **

Those words, along with the words Billie had said about the time he'd been shot during the werewolf case in Grangeville, Idaho.  
They made him wonder about things he'd rather not contemplate.

Was his brother suicidal? Something moved in Sam's chest like a splinter of shattered glass.

He'd never considered that night from Dean’s perspective,

**_'Why was everyone willing to die for him, but not willing to live for him?'_ **

_Was that really how he felt?_ A breath of pain forced its way past his lips.

A memory of Dean’s half heard drunken words that night in the impala. "Sammy don't ever say you love me." Suddenly it made painful sense, did Dean really think that people said they loved him only when they were leaving him.  
That night, Dean'd been saying "don't leave me."

Sometimes he forgot how broken and ... _human_ , his brother had to be, under the impassive, controlled mask he habitually wore. Sam swallowed around the lump forming in his throat.

His eyes followed the words lower, his own thoughts laid bare.  
Again, that twist of guilt, the reinforced determination to be a better son.

Finally, he got some answers about Michele, she was okay, living life, a bit saddened by him disappearing on her, but she was beginning to let him go.

Sam felt a pang of pain at that.

He tried to shake it off, telling himself it was better for both of them if she did. That he couldn't expect a stranger on the other side of the world to hang on indefinitely.  
Clenching his jaw he dragged a rough hand across his eyes in self-disgust, looked away from the screen breathing harshly.  
His eyes landed in the hip flask, and knocked it aside, noticing how diminished his coordination was.

 _‘This is why I shouldn’t drink,’_ he lectured himself.

So there it was, the record up until he'd read out her emails to Dean.

  
Sam took a shaky breath, _wanting more_ , and resenting the fact.  
Who in their right mind wanted _more_ of something like that?

His eyes fell on the small checkbox at the end of the story.  
He clicked to follow and favourite her story, muzzily thinking that at least it was a way he could keep invisible tabs on her and know she was still out there, and okay.

6 slow heartbeats later it hit him, what he'd done.

Aghast, he realized she'd get an message, telling her he'd followed and favorited her story.

  
There was nothing he could do to take it back.

Cursing savagely at his own alcohol fueled stupidity, Sam tried to work out what to do about the giant clusterfuck he'd just created.


	31. And That’s How It’s Done!

**The Thing You Hate**

  
**Chapter 31: And That’s How It’s Done!**

****

Sam stood, eyes closed feeling the hot water needle his scalp, run through his hair and down his back.   
With his eyes closed the world was narrowed to the darkness behind his eyelids and the unsteady, off kilter sensation that came from too much whiskey.

Sam mulled over the email he'd begun writing as the warm water drummed its heated fingers into his muscles, trying to remove the tension brought on by his own alcohol fueled stupidity.

He'd decided to go with the route Dean had suggested, to apologise and not give any useful details about exactly why or how he'd managed to be totally out of email con tact for a two whole months.

The photo though, that was a problem, he couldn't just send her one of him, not unless he wanted her to have a heart attack and a nervous breakdown rolled in to one.  
On the other side of the world. Alone.

"The talk," was one of those things that should not be done on line, or even over the phone. Usually the person involved had just had a life-threatening brush with the supernatural which softened them up.   
Then preferably, you blocked all the exits and forced a few stiff drinks on the person; then you told them.

So, there was no way he’d send her his photo, he figured that Dean’s was probably out of the question too.   
Some random guy off the street then? Offer some random guy from town twenty bucks to hold some milk and a local paper?  
Lies again; But for a good cause, he told himself.   
Sam looked down at the water swirling past his feet and down the drain.

Maybe, he thought, he should simply bite the bullet and lay things on the table, stop trying to protect her or leave her believing her life was normal.

Work out what she was and if she was any use (or threat) to them.

Or he could just leave her the hell alone, let her feel hurt, jilted, or whatever.  
Stop looking at fanfiction.  
Just shut the door and walk away. Leave the mystery of what she was alone.

With a groan, Sam rested his head against the shower wall wishing someone else would make that call, he longed to hand it over to Dean, and say "you decided."  
The patterns of childhood, and being the littler brother, of abdicating responsibility to Dean was a lure that he fought constantly.  
He wasn't a child, he _should be_ able to work out his problems without his brother telling him what to do!

  
He was a _grown man_ for fuckssake.

He'd battled angels, demons and God’s sister, endured torture, gone into battle against the devil himself, had almost ended the world twice. Then saved it... and here he was, couldn't see straight to handle one naive little housewife ... _Crap that was beyond pathetic._

…ooo0ooo…

Dean followed the music down the hallway to his brother’s room, found it empty and Sam’s phone lying on the bed.

Heart drumming, he turned off Sam's iPod, then heard the pipes doing their usual protest, and the shower running down the hall.

Sam located, Dean swallowed down the tug of anxiety with irritation.  
He hated how since Toni Bevell, and their stay in solitary, he felt driven to know where Sam was all the time.  
It was worse than when Sammy was a toddler and taking care of him was his Dad ordained duty.

Looking down at Sam's phone, he found that he had finally written an email to his hobbit chick, 'bout time too.

Sometimes Sammy was just downright weird with women.  
Next, he'd go all bashful and be a total chick about the photo she'd requested, no doubt about that in Dean’s mind.  
But Dean wasn't in the mood to put up with that shit today.  
Carrying a copy of the local paper he'd picked up on the supply run, Dean made his way to the map room and pinned the paper over some of Cas's Kelly Kline research.  
Then he sat down with a bottle of milk and Sam's phone in front of him, humming a Metallica tune, drumming on the map-table with his fingers, and waited for Sam.

…ooo0ooo…

Dressed and feeling marginally more sober. Sam had decided that the walk away option might make the most sense after all.  
He thought he'd left his phone in his room but it wasn't on his bed,  
Dean was back, sometimes he'd chuck it on charge.

Sam followed the sound of his brothers humming and hand drum solo to the war-room.

…ooo0ooo…

"Dean, you seen..."

"Heads up Sammy," Dean tossed him something he assumed was a beer, but it was heavier and more unwieldy.

  
Still not entirely sober, Sam caught it fumblingly and frowned at the milk bottle in confusion.

"Look at me Sam."

Sam looked up at his brother, and Dean snapped a photo of him with his phone and clicked a few things, then announced, "and that's how it's done!" with a self-satisfied smile.

"Dean, the milk goes..." his voice dried up as he realized what he was holding. Swinging around, he saw the newspaper pinned on the board by his shoulder.

"Tell me you didn't just send that to her," he hissed horrified.

"Dude, I know you probably wanted to fuss with your hair and makeup for like an hour first, but as guys go you're easy enough on the eye not to sweat it... not as hot as me of course, cos I'm _awesome. But hey!_  
Besides, as you keep tellin' me, _she's married_ and it's ' _not like that_.'..." Dean rambled on good-naturedly, unaware of Sam's reaction until he grabbed him by jacket and hauled him halfway across the table.

Dean’s green eyes flared wide with shock. " _Christo,_ Sam?!"

Sam dropped his hands away from his brother, almost as if he’d been burned. "You _don't know_ what you just did." Sam didn't sound mad now, he almost sounded mournful as he backed away from him.

Dean followed, his hands raised, non-threateningly, eyes never leaving Sam's face "What _did_ I do, Sam?”

"Jesus Dean, you dropped _our whole fucking world_ on her head. With a _fucking email_.  
She's on the other side of the _fucking world_. _Alone, with our crap. She doesn't deserve that."_

"Don't get so worked up Sammy. It’s not…”

"She knows _my face_ , Dean. She's still writing the Winchester fucking gospels or whatever the Hell you want to call them. She thinks they're just a story, which she gets migraines and nose bleeds if she doesn't write, but she still fought writing them.... because she doesn't like violence, or spreading it and she's stubborn ... The stuff that happened in Montauk really freaked her out, she felt guilty about inventing a story like that, Dean.   
Finding out we're real, it mIggy quite literally kill her, or at least push her over the edge. _  
And there's not a damn thing we can do about it now_."

Dean laid his hands on Sam’s arms and looked up into his brothers flinching face.

Wordless.


	32. Storm

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 32: Storm**

Monday morning. The sky was dark and brooding, thunderclouds marched across the sky, the light held an almost electric purple quality, making everything seem vivid and slightly unreal.

Michele shrugged her shoulders uncomfortably feeling the pressure in the air subliminally.

" _A few more minutes and we better get going,"_ she told herself as she pursued her small son in yet another circuit around the park, following a blue and black Pukeko.  
She wished for a moment that her phone wasn't out of data, because her fic friend Cat was quite taken with the odd NZ marsh birds, and this one was almost tame.

She'd grown accustomed to walking through daily life with a pocket full strangers she could share stuff with.   
But Peaches was working on an assignment. Cat should be sleeping (but no doubt wouldn't be.) And her other chat regular, Cougar, mostly only chatted with her while the rest of America slept, and she found herself at an insomnia fuelled loose end. (No illusions there, _but actually_ , that kind of friendship suited her _perfectly_ ; since Sam's bizarre sex change and exit from her life.) Michele told herself she could cope without data _just fine_ , until her account topped up again.

_She wasn't a teenager._

A fat droplet of rain struck Michele’s cheek and announced it was time to scoop up her progeny and do the hundred-yard dash back to the car, before the heavens really unburdened themselves.

....

The library was stop three of the Monday routine, (after school drop off, and duck pond.) Where Michele and her smallest would exchange books and attend "Storytime."  
A badly named library activity, that actually involved uncontrollable chaos of 20 odd small children and their handlers, sitting round the children's librarian, who always wore a logic defyingly short skirt, to sing a bunch of kiddie action songs.

There would be a story involved at some point, but it was rather hit and miss whether you could actually hear it, over a chorus of irate toddlers.

Michele's personal favourite had been the day, someone's _wee darling_ had swiped the story book, and Stephanie the librarian, had given chase, tiny skirt be damned, as she attempted to retrieve the book.   
If only she’d recorded the incident…. sped it up and added some kazoo music... Kids and animals made everything more humorous as long as you weren’t their victim.

Right now, they still had ten minutes or so before ‘Storytime,’ so it was time for, ‘toddler book roulette.’  
Release Mr 2 and suggest he find her a book to read, some days this became a game of, ‘chase me around and through every bookshelf in the library, then attempt to stop me from pulling all the books off the shelf, about a topic... say, tantric sex, just to mortify my poor mummy.’

There was no doubt in her mind, the little blighter took after his father. He was a windup merchant, who got away with it because he was so deceptively cute. Though how the two year old knew which were the worst books to go for was a mystery. 

Thankfully, today Mr 2 and troublesome, had chosen an _appropriate_ book, one called ‘Nat the Cats Sunshine Smile,’ by Jez Alborough, writer of another Chadwick family favourite, ‘Duck in a Truck.’

Nat the cat, apparently had woken up feeling wonderful and was off for a picnic with her friends, however when she went to meet each of her friends they'd all had yucky mornings and were not in a picnicking mood.  
So, Nat gave them a smile and a pat and went on her way.

 _‘Poor Nat_ ,’ Michele thought with a sigh, ‘ _it really sucks when you try to be nice to people and they leave you high and dry,’_ she bit at her lip and kept reading ( _definitely NOT thinking about Sam_ , because she wasn’t _that pathetic.)_

Of course, this was a kids book, so after Nat left her friends to their sulks, her magic smile made her friends bad moods all better, and just when she was sitting alone and feeling sad, with a picnic she no longer wanted, her friends came along and gave her back her smile. And they all had a wonderful picnic.

‘ _Real life is definitely not a kiddie book.’_ Michele thought closing the book and reaching for the next one to start reading.

"Look who it is Ollie," a voice made Michele look up. "It's Michele and Christopher Chadwick!”

Michele gazed across the library to see her friend Paula, leading her own white-blonde ringlet-topped son, and grinned.

"You came! I thought since it was raining, you'd stay home!”

"I _did_ message you.”

“Uh," Michele pulled out and tilted her phone. "…Out of data, again…”

Paula gave her a look.  
“The library does have Wi-Fi you know..."

"Yeah, but… I'm a tech idiot, I keep meaning to ask hubby or the daughters... but well..." Michele shrugged fixing her friend with a set of winsome green eyes.

"Oh, _give it here_ ," Paula snorted, amused by her Luddite ways and took Michele’s phone from her hand swiped and tapped a few things and the miracle of internet happened.

"Thank you!” Michele enthused adoringly, all wide eyes and dimples.  
“ _Oh, look_ Paula's sent me a message!" Michele faked surprise.

"Yeah, and I bet I know what it says too…  
Oh, Hi Mel.."

Michele watched Paula walk over to greet another mum.  
Paula was amazing, one of those playcentre, PTA mums, who was involved in every committee meeting and knew everyone, and _more amazingly_ everyone liked.  
She left Paula to her effortless social dance and began reading the story book to her son again. Ollie wandered over, uninterested in his mum’s social networking, and Michele popped him up on her other knee and rested her chin between platinum curls and her own son’s soft honey blonde mop, and read more furry animal adventures.

….

When Stephanie of the micro skirt arrived, Paula drifted back over and took a seat next to Michele retrieving her son.  
In the lull Michele figured she'd just, umm, check her emails... not that she was _addicted..._ she just wondered if she had any reviews on her latest chapter...

Michele looked sideways at her friend, and wondered what Paula would think if she knew Michele was moonlighting as a fanfiction writer.  
Somehow, that topic just never surfaced into conversation with her everyday friends.

A new follower, yay!

Michele covered a small yip of surprise, seeing who the follower was.

SWrocksaltandsilver.

_Sam?!!_

Then, she saw an email from him. _Just sitting there_ , along with the follower notification, like it had every right to _just sit there._  
Like it hadn't been _m o n t h s._

How stupid was it, that her heartbeat was pounding in her ears and her hands were shaking?

Michele wished she could be like one of those sassy black women on Oprah Winfrey (not that she ever had time to watch daytime T.V,) who would do that finger waggle and head bob and declare, "No he didn't!" Then strut off, with her nose in the air.

Instead, she clicked on Sam's email.

The air leaked out of her lungs, seeing the attached photo.

She knew that face.

Reaching out blindly Michele gripped her friend’s shoulder.

"Can you..." her hand waved vaguely at her son, forcing words out of a throat knotted tight. "I think I'm going to puke!” She gasped lurching to her feet.

Turning away, she half staggered to the bathroom and into a stall.  
Locked the door and fell to her knees on the grimy bathroom floor, before losing her breakfast.  
Most of the mess made it into the porcelain.  
Holding the toilet seat to keep balance, Michele stared at her phone in denial, clenched it in her fist so tightly that her knuckles ached with the strain.

That was Sam? .... _But it couldn't be!_  
She _knew_ that face. That ... was _Sam Winchester, from her dreams._

She couldn't breathe.

The whole world seemed to throb with her shocked heartbeat and ragged gasps for breath.   
She was shaking, so badly she couldn't even focus on the picture on the screen.  
Yet the lines of _his face_ were burned into her mind.

Thoughts tumbled in her head like dominoes.

Sam gone without a word for two months.

Sam Winchester in a cell.

_No!_

No no no no!  
That was crazy, _she was crazy!_

There was real life, and there was Supernatural.

It Was Just A Story.

The dominos in her head kept tumbling mercilessly, each one leading to another.

"No no no no!” She moaned in denial. “ _Not real,_ I can't… I WONT believe it. It’s not real.  
He's not... I didn't. I'm not. I can't. It's just a mistake, a joke, _I've lost it_."

Finally, Michele made her fist unlock, and let the phone fall to the floor.

Cringed away from the clatter she curled herself on the tiled floor, and wrapped her arms around her knees, pressed her wet face into them. Like her son in a full autistic melt down.

Then, her whole body spasmed, as if she’d been electrocuted, and her whimpers cut off.

A vision struck.

It wasn't like the previous, half seen flashes, more like a gushing mental download crammed into her skull, until it felt like her head would explode.  
Days of information and experience flooded into her in mere moments.

It finished with the look on Sam and Dean Winchester’s faces.

Michele gasped wretchedly and crawled back to the toilet, to vomit again. There was nothing left in her stomach but bile, mixed blood from her nose, which dripped, vivid red as a warning down her chin.

...ooo0ooo...

Wrung out and shivering, drenched in oily sweat, Michele rested her chin on the plastic toilet seat, and stared at the blood and bile smeared there blankly.  
Aware, but not fully caring how gross it was.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been holed up in the toilet, but now that her emotional circuits seemed to have blown, she was left with a numb kind of calmness.  
Crouching on the library’s toilet floor snivelling wasn't a helpful response.  
She needed to get a grip.

  
Michele dragged herself to her feet, using the hand basin for support and splashed water in her face.

Mechanically she sponged the worst of the puke and blood off her shirt and squatted to sop the floor clean with a handful of paper towels.  
Collecting her phone from where it had fallen, she was distantly grateful it hadn’t broken.   
She looked at the photo again, hoping against hope, that the photo would seem less familiar. But the face on the screen hadn’t changed.

A lead weight of confusion and horror sat heavy in her stomach.

What she was thinking _wasn’t possible,_ there _had_ to be some other explanation.  
But what ever it was, she wouldn’t find it holed up in the library loo.  
She needed to get her son, and get herself home.  
Heaven willing, Mr 2 would fall asleep in the car on the drive home and then she'd have some time to work this out, put herself back together or fall apart.

... _when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

The question was, where did impossible begin?  
Michele shoved the thought away roughly, and straightened her shoulders, lifting her chin to check her reflection in the mirror.

Either way, there was a kid out there who needed a nap, and another one that would be waiting for her, _and only her_ to pick him up from school at 3pm.  
So, she needed to sort herself out and get her head on straight by then.

She was a Mum.

She was _Johnny’s_ Mum, and he needed her to _hold it together._

Mental breakdowns, the impossible, Winchesters, an apocalypse, or the second coming, all needed to take a number.

Some things were non-negotiable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are enjoying this fic, or the art, please kudos, comment or subscribe. Those little tokens are what keep us fic writers doing what we do.


	33. Oil and Water

**The Thing You Hate**

  
**Chapter 33: Oil and Water**

Michele carried her small sleeping child in from the car and lay him on his bed, slipped off his shoes and covered him with a blanket.

Putting off the thing she was uncertain and unwilling to deal with for just a while longer; she lingered, looking down at her son’s sooty lashes whitch brushed his peach soft cheeks, and studied her son's rosebud mouth, so relaxed in innocent sleep.

Reaching out, Michele stroked her son’s soft honey-blonde hair, then turned away reluctantly.  
Ran a hand back through her own hair, encountering something else she didn't want to consider too deeply; but she'd need to deal with.  
_Ugh! She needed a shower and clean clothes._

....

As she showered and redressed, the questions percolated.  
Did she, could she, believe where things seemed to be leading? All the questions rolled around her head, finding nowhere comfortable to settle.

_Did she really need to believe?_

It wouldn't be the first time she'd been faced with things that didn't totally fit, and instead of choosing to believe or disbelieve, she had simply placed them in a sort of mental pending basket.

Images stirred briefly in the deep-water lake of her mind.

_Opening cupped palms and watching a fly buzz free._

_Scorched grass and a knife lying where there hadn't been anything._

_A man on a chestnut horse calling out to draw help for her, but strangely only observing. Then gone._

_Prayers answered, and the consequence of prayers not prayed._

They were all things that asked questions she had fled from answering.  
Like standing on the brink of a cliff and simply turning her face away, to look elsewhere.

The ability to balance on that knife edge between belief and disbelief indefinitely, yet move forward, required a certain amount of compartmentalization.

But, it wasn't so different from what it took to know that Peaches as an American was 73.68% more likely to be murdered than she was in New Zealand.

Or that children died hourly from lack of clean water, in third world countries.

Or that there were countries out there, with enough nuclear weapons to slag the planet to radioactive waste.

Or that people killed each other over faith.

Facts that existed but didn't penetrate. They lay on the surface like oil on water, and didn't mix.  
Oh, you could shake things up and it would seem they'd mixed, but left to settle, they always parted ways.

So yes, she could believe and not believe in America as some haunt of mythical monsters and Winchesters, she could place it all in a compartment that touched nothing else.

Except that wasn't fully true, was it? The day Peaches had told her class was cancelled, and she'd been about to make a throw away comment about bomb threats, then realised, that gosh! It wasn't funny, because things like that really did happen there.  
Yes, it had sunk in, that 73.68%.

Caring made it soak in. Like one drop of detergent could make oil dissolve effortlessly into water.

And that was the problem.

It wasn't the only problem, the other was, that this time, the luxury of putting it aside, not choosing, might be out of reach.  
This time, something was at work pushing her towards that metaphorical cliff, and denial wasn't being tolerated.

With a sigh, she seated herself at the PC, logged in and stared at the friend requests on Facebook and Skype.

A brief ironic smile flitted across her lips at the ?memory? of Dean cyber stalking her.  
She deleted the Facebook request out of hand.  
Her daughters were using Facebook now. And apparently, she needed to update her privacy settings on her Facebook acount.

For a long time, she stared at the Skype request; originally she got Skype for Peaches, and she only really had her fic friends as contacts.  
Even so, there was real discomfort thinking of her two fickids and Cougar sharing an app with the unnerving potential that Sam now seemed to hold..

Reminding herself that neither fic denizens, nor _possible_ Winchester could touch each other simply by sharing an application, Michele accepted Sam's request.

…ooo0ooo…

Michele Chadwick, 6:00PM  
Thank you.

The words appeared on Sam's screen in the Skype box, filling him with a certain amount of bafflement. It wasn't what he expected.

 **6:01PM**  
**Michele?**

He typed, frowning at the screen. Time seemed to crawl slowly before her reply popped up.

Michele Chadwick, 6:09PM  
Yes, the one and only. But you must know that, you contacted me.

 **6:10PM**  
**I don't understand 'Thank you' ??**

Michele Chadwick, 6:12PM  
Well. In civilised places, people usually use that words as a gesture of gratitude. Say if someone did something pretty big… Averted an apocalypse... Or maybe replied to an email, after two months silence, that might require some sort of gesture of gratitude. Such as the words, Thank you.

Sam stared at the screen and frowned.

 **6:13PM**  
**So.... are you okay?**

He typed cautiously.

  
The minutes lagged.

  
Michele Chadwick, 6:18PM  
Hobbits are fairly resilient.

  
Dean rumbled in the back of his throat, from his position hovering behind his brother’s shoulder.  
"Well this is great fun, watching you two dance about like a couple of lawyers, Sam. Shift your ass over."

"Dean ..."

"Move Sam." His brother shoved him over and Sam gave up the keyboard reluctantly.

 **6:20PM**  
**Michelle, Dean here, let's cut the crap shall we?**

  
"Dean!" Sam objected, shooting his brother a horrified look.

  
Michele Chadwick, 6:22PM  
Ok, ‘Dean,’ I can do that.  
Tell me, what’s your last name? And does Patches mean anything to you?

Dean looked across at his brother with a hum, and favoured him with a grin, "Told ya Sammy."

 **6:25PM**  
**My names Dean -none of your fricking business what my middle name is- Winchester.**  
**My brother’s name is Samuel William Winchester.**  
**And Patches was a red haired chick, that had a hate on for angels, name of Lilly Sunder.**

 **6:27PM**  
**Satisfied?**

Michele Chadwick, 6:28PM  
Of course I am Dean. It’s why people get married.

  
Dean snorted at the response and rolled his eyes.  
"Whatever.”

  
**6:28PM**  
**Our turn for questions.**  
**What the hell are u?**

The screen showed she was typing. Stopped, then started again.

  
Michele Chadwick, 6:39PM  
How the heck am I supposed to know. Aren’t Winchester’s supposed to be the resident experts on weird stuff. If this isn’t a sick joke.  
You tell me. And believe me I’m still inclined to think this is some sort of sick prank, but I KNOW your brother’s face from my dreams, so how is that possible …?

 **6:40PM**  
**Thought you read Chucks books, or was that just for the descriptions of yours truly naked.**

  
"Dean!"

"Coulda been for descriptions of you, Sammy."  
Seriously Sam, this is probably gonna go like with that Becky chick.”

  
Michele Chadwick 6:43PM  
The nice thing about books, Dean, is you can skip over unsavoury stuff. Having read Edlund’s books, I’m thankful it’s not you I'm stuck following. Since you use women like tissues. My eyeballs would probably start bleeding if I had to watch you whore your way across America.

  
Sam grunted in amusement and his brother shot him a glare.

"Nice, real lady you picked up Sammy.  
Bitchy little hobbit."

"You were being a jerk, Dean."

“Yeah whatever!”

They both watched and waited, again, what ever she was typing now took a long time.

Michele Chadwick, 6:45PM  
Shoot, that was uncalled for! I’m sorry. This is …. Ugh!  
Yes, I read the books, but they are supposed to be fiction. I didn’t read them so I could perve on your sex life, it was mostly the Supernatural stuff I read for, I don’t know really, it was just supposed to be a distraction from my real life. I wasn't studying the books for an exam or anything, or using them as a check list. They are Fiction! Supposed to be fiction. This is insane! You have to be trolling me! How can any of this be real?  
But if we assume this ISN’T some elaborate joke… you probably hate me, I mean ficwriters can’t be your favourite creatures. And I witnessed some stuff noone would want to think about, or share, I get that…

Fanfiction… some of it is pretty awful … and I can’t imagine how I’d feel in your place.  
This is insane! If it’s real you have EVERY right to feel invaded, angry – to hate all of us…  
We all have our coping mechanisms. Our distractions.  
With everything you must have endured, it's amazing you're still doing what you do really … not curled up rocking in the corner of an inane asylum, singing nursery rhymes.  
You have my respect and thanks for everything you have done, and endured, both of you and you do it with no thanks.  
So yes, thank you. If you are really _you_.  
Venting at you because I’m freaked out, it wasn’t fair, or worthy.

Again I’m Sorry.  
Unlike you, I'm not strong, or a hero. I freak out.  
An hour ago, the question of what 'I am' would have been answered as ex-lab-scientist, wife and mother of four. I’m sorry, for being bitchy Dean.

  
They both read through her small novel of words.

"Crap! Now I feel like I kicked a puppy." Dean muttered shoving the laptop back at his brother.

Sam took over the keyboard again.

 **6:55PM**  
**Michele, its Sam here, now.**

Michele Chadwick, 6:55PM  
Sam? Ummm I'm sorry... I didn't mean...

 **6:56PM**  
**Yeah. Dean would probably be sorry too, if admitting that wouldn't cause him to burst into flames.**

Michele Chadwick, 6:58PM  
He's allowed to be grumpy about this...  
I seriously don't know what I am. I’m still trying to wrap my head round… everything.

 **6:59PM**  
**So, can you tell me how your thing works?**

Michele Chadwick, 7:00PM  
My thing….

Michele Chadwick, 7:03PM  
I see some things when I have…umm let’s call them visions.. and dreams. They are pretty vivid.  
But, don't really make sense to me.  
And I don't know if I'm seeing it before, after or at the same time as it’s happening. If it’s happening…. At some point after that, I sort of have to write stuff, sometimes that writing fills in the gaps.  
I don't really knowww -takes deep breaths- I have no idea how much of what I write is true, except for my stuff. I thought it was all just an imaginary story!

 **7:10PM**  
**You are getting migraines and nose bleeds?**

There was a lag.

Michele Chadwick, 7:12PM  
Yes, Sam.

 **7:12PM**  
**Are both your parents alive, were there any fires when you were a child?**

Michele Chadwick, 7:13PM  
Are you asking if I had a demonic visitor at six months old?  
I'm older than you Sam, and .... I thought all the special kids were all Americans, didn’t they all get their call up for the Cold Oak hunger games?  
I was born and bred in New Zealand.  
I'm not adopted, and both my parents are alive, there have never been any fires.

 **7:15PM**  
**Have you ever felt unclean?**

Michele Chadwick, 7:16PM  
Wow, umm… I'm not sure how to answer that. But ?no? I don't think so.

 **7:16PM**  
**Cas might be able to tell us if you're a prophet.**

Michele Chadwick, 7:16PM  
NO!

 **7:17PM**  
**Michele, I really think it’s a good idea, he knows stuff.**

Michele Chadwick, 7:17PM  
No Sam, no no no no. I actually don't give a damn what I am! No offence but how does knowing ‘what I am’ help? I don't want to know and I certainly don't want anything from your world knowing about me!

  
**7:18PM**  
**You're not thinking clearly, you’re upset, I get it, Michele. It’s a lot.**

**But knowing what you are, it could help.**

Michele Chadwick, 7:18PM  
No!

Michele Chadwick, 7:20PM  
Ask Mrs Tran how knowing worked out. Ask Kevin's girlfriend.  
Maybe I am upset.  
But I think it’s pretty logical not wanting angels, demons, monsters or witches to know I exist. I mean seriously!  
Besides, it's in YOUR best interest NOONE knows about me, because the moment they do, what I see becomes a chink in your armour.  
And no offence, but if I’m put in a position where I have to choose between my family, you, or saving the world .... I’m not strong like you, I’m no hero.  
I’m just a Mum.

 **7:22PM**  
**Cas is trustworthy.**

Michele Chadwick, 7:25PM  
Really? Pretty much everyone is safer away from angel politics. Sound familiar, Sam?  
After Ishim…?  
I like heaven’s most autistic angel, Sam.

Castiel is one of the good ones, but…  
But me and my family we are disposable entities in any of your equations, just like Kevin and his loved ones were.  
I'm not saying you wouldn't care. But I'm not dumb enough to think that I'm anything more than a glorified pen pal, with ‘something something mojo,’ or whatever. My family isn’t anything more than a concept to you.  
If Castiel thought I was a risk to his precious Winchesters, he'd run me through.  
Or hand me over, to be dragged off into some desert.  
You don’t understand! My family needs me, here. It's non-negotiable. I don’t want to get mixed up with your monsters and demons. I won’t!

  
Sam pushed away from the screen, old wounds re-opened. He wished he could deny the charges. Michele had read the books, and knew their history. Looking across at Dean as he paced the floor restlessly, Sam gathered Dean felt the same.

  
**7:27PM**  
**Then how can we help?**

  
He typed after minutes of silence. He sat staring at the screen, head hands, fingers knotted through his hair.

Michele Chadwick, 7:28PM  
I'm not sure you can, at least not much more than not …Not serving me and mine up on a plate, to the conglomerated supernatural world.

Michele Chadwick, 7:29PM  
Honestly, I don't think you're supposed to help me. NZ is a long way away… isn’t America enough burden to worry about?  
I'm not sure I can help you either, honestly.  
I’ll try of course, if I can, if I see something, but...

Michele Chadwick 7:30PM  
Look I have to go. Mr 2’s just woken up, then I have to go get Mr 8 from school.  
It's gotta be round about dinnertime there, so go get some food and get some sleep, you look really tired in that photo.  
I'm fine, you're fine.  
Whatever this is, please, just leave it be, Hu?

Michele logged out.  
Fled from them.

Dean looked at his brother.

"Dude, your hobbit just sent you to bed.”


	34. Real Life

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 34: Real Life**

Michele was sitting at the kitchen table when Phillip came home from work that afternoon, she was staring into space with a pile of her favourite books in front of her.

  
Having run the gauntlet of four loud excited children, he was surprised that she seemed oblivious to his presence, until he walked up behind her and gave her butt a playful swat.

The startled eyes that looked up at him were red rimmed and the vivid green that came with shed tears.

"Everything ok?" He asked studying her face worriedly.

"Yeah, I got an email from Sam today."

"Sam?"

"The fanfic one— That wasn't a girl?"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, seems one of their jobs went wrong, they've been in jail."

"Jail... well that's ..." he cleared his throat "…So he’s a _criminal_?"

"No .... I don't think so, more they were in the wrong place at the wrong time and it took a while to sort out."

"Hmm, so he sent you the photo?" Phil was less than thrilled with the entire conversation. Chatting with a couple of university students and sparky red head who wrote fanfiction and stuff similar to 50 shades of grey, that was one thing. Swapping emails with a bunch of women who liked the oddball ‘Supernatural’ book series was pretty harmless too. But talking to some guy that had been in _jail_ .... _And_ she had been crying … Well, all _that_ was _something else._

His wife had a tender heart, she picked up waifs and strays and sometimes, she believed _too much_ in people who didn’t deserve it.

"Yeah." She handed him her phone.

"He doesn't exactly _look like a hardened criminal_ , does he? Actually, he looks kind of sick, I guess a private investigator mightn't be everyone's favourite friend in prison. He have a hard time in there?"

Phillip couldn’t be too cynical, after all he and his girls had been some of Michele’s many waifs and strays who were decent people too.

His wife didn't say anything, she just looked distinctly miserable. And he guessed she felt guilty for being pissed at the guy.

"Hey, I know you can't help caring about people...just… remember not everyone, and everything is your problem, my love. And don't let yourself get sucked in too deep okay? Some guys, they _do_ deserve prison time, and guys like that, they won’t admit it. Especially not to some stranger on line... Just be careful with this guy okay, and listen to Missy Peaches on the whole internet safety thing, promise me?”

Michele blinked at him and bit her lip.   
Uncomfortable with the turn of conversation, he looked down at the books on the table and picked one up grinning, and tried not to let his worry show.

"It’s ok…the only blokes I _really_ have to worry about stealing you away, are those two bloody Winchesters." He said waving the book.  
"Why I introduced you to them I have no idea. Guess _it did_ give me something to buy for our anniversary.  
You recon that Edland guy is going to write any more? Good ol’ Georgey Porgie is st-ill mucking round with Thrones and that Russian guy hasn’t written another one yet. Those writer guys need to get a work ethic, I mean you probably write faster!”

His wife got the strangest look on her face, then, she got up and walked out of the room without saying a word.  
Phillip was left wondering why his teasing had fallen so flat.   
Women were the strangest creatures, some days.

...ooo0ooo...

Peaches, 6:02AM  
Allo?

**6.02AM  
Hi Peachy girl**

Peaches, 6:03AM  
Missed you yesterday, did you have a migraine.

**6:04AM  
Just a headache, apparently, it goes by the title of 'Real Life', or the close approximation. How're your assignments going?**

Peaches, 6:05AM  
I’m just about finished one of your favourite sort, want to read through it when I'm done?

 **6:06AM**  
**Always, hey got a question if I wanted to be less traceable on email and Skype how would I do that?**

Peaches, 6:07AM  
You ok?

**6:08AM  
Yeah, think of it as story research.**

Peaches, 6:09AM  
Haha you’re breaking the fourth wall again aren’t you?  
Well, for a start, you'd signup for new email and Skype accounts, on something like gmail, yahoo or hotmail and you would… NOT use your name or anything, (no brainer really.) Don't fill in anything you don't have to, don't use real info, random strings of letters and numbers are good.

**6:09AM  
Ok**

**6:10AM  
Ugh, I can't think of an ID, what would you call AU me?**

Peaches, 6:12AM  
What about HobbitualPsychick

**6:15AM  
-Laughs-, that is awful hon! But I'm gonna use it, since 'Peaches' is helping me sort "my story stuff"**

Peaches, 6:16AM  
Yesssss  
The puns and spelling, r total cringe, so bad it’s good.

**6:17AM  
Groan inducingly bad. But I guess… it's also kinda cute. As always, you prove you are worthy of your Olympian fic-writer status, you’re by far my sweetest, cutest Olympian too. AU Michele thanks you for your technical advice.**

Peaches, 6:18AM  
Both of 'us' are blushing.

**6:19AM  
-Half smile- write fanfic and totally mess with reality, your world view and the time space continuum. But on the up side your friends get cloned.**

Peaches, 6:19AM  
Not everyone's stories are like yours.

**6:19AM  
True**

**6:21AM  
If Sam Winchester was real and you met him, what would you say to him?**

Peaches, 6:22AM  
Probably "Errr Hi.” Or something equally clueless

**6:23AM  
Not, “sorry about that stuff in China and shooting you .... or anything?**

Peaches, 6:24AM  
You'd probably burst into tears, shove a puppy and some MMs at him and wail, "I'm sorry about the mermaid." Then start telling him he should have less screentime.

**6:25AM  
Smarty pants! I might say Thank you, first. And I'm not entirely sure their lifestyle is conducive to pet ownership.**

Peaches, 6:26AM  
Meeting Sam might not be very healthy for me, though. I've got long blonde curly hair like Jess, and want to attend Stanford... don't really want to burn on the ceiling.

  
Michele suddenly felt sick starring at the screen. How was she supposed to balance this? It was insane.

Peaches, 6:26AM  
You could burn me on the ceiling, that'd up the angst in your fic. I don't mind.

  
Michele ground her teeth taking deep breaths.

  
**6:27AM**  
**Well I do! Please don't say that. EVER!**  
**Now please go finish that assignment. I'm really looking forward to reading it.**

Peaches, 6:27AM  
Yes, Kiwi Mum.

  
Michele closed her eyes and bit her lip. She was shaking, she realised.  
Thinking you had been inserted into the world of Supernatural wasn’t fun!  
Suddenly everywhere she turned the world she thought she knew was like a thin veneer, a children's game that hid a darker secret.  
One everyone would think she was nuts if she spoke of.  
The jury was still out on whether she was nuts.

But it seemed like everyone she knew and cared for could be ransom to her silence.

….

Salutations Brothers Winchester

Greetings from the Shire, residence of the psychic hotline.  
While we await a message from the great beyond, can I ask you to do me a solid?  
Can you please generally, obliterate and obliviate my Michele Chadwick email addresses from your records and instead use the following  
hobbitualpsychick.at.gmail.com  
The ID awful pun that it is, is curtesy of my friendly tech expert, she’s a darling. Walked me through the process of creation of a new account and linking all the horrible techy stuff up properly.  
One of the amusing things about ‘my new reality,’ is that I can pass off almost anything to my motley collection of fic contacts as 'story research,' no one in your fandom blinks an eye at weird stuff. And, I’ll probably be stuck writing it at some point. So, it’s not a lie.

Righty hoe, now I've got the house keeping stuff out of the way, I shall tell you of the bemusingness of Wednesdays for the next month.  
My parenting gig, always a circus at the best of times, now involves attending a ‘feeding course’ on Wednesday’s.  
Mr 2 was born with tongue and lip ties, which basically means there were extra little strings of flesh joining everything up, it stopped him opening his mouth or using his tongue properly.  
And while he had surgery to fix it, he still has real issues with eating like a normal two year old.

Now, the powers that be have decided what we need to fix this issue, is not physio or perhaps a doctor to make sure the wee darlin is bolted together correctly, nope; what we need is a ‘feeding course’ entitled, "Fun with food."  
The course, now that the two half-day parent education sessions are complete (-my head hurts a little from all that developmental info they crammed into us-) will continue with me and a bunch of other parents and their kidlets doing what’s called ‘food therapy,’ each Wednesday.

It seems to involve a lot of playing with food in the most unseemly manner.  
As the parent I have to lead the charge ... smearing chickpea purée on my nose and making mustaches out of bits of apple, you name it it’s on the menu *rueful look.*  
So much for not playing with your food!

The whole thing seems a trifle insane, all these adults being weird with food and saying stuff like, "I can put the brown stick on my nose," "You can put the brown stick on your nose too,” (because psycho-babble states we should never ask the child if they can do something, we should just tell them that they can do it, yay! Piffttt mutter grump… whatever…  
"I can balance the brown stick on my head, tada!"..."I can tap the brown stick on my teeth," "I can kiss the brown stick".... all in falsely happy singsong tones.  
The nutcase philosophy also states, we must not tell the children what the food is, but instead must describe it.  
In this case the answer to question of ‘what's brown and sticky?’ is "a pretzel." But shhhh don't tell the kids that. Because if they have food issues, they can’t possibly also have the IQ and observational skills to know ‘the brown stick,’ is a pretzel on their own, can they?…. Of course not -rolls eyes- Sheesh!

And you thought Winchester’s were the craziest thing in my life… guess again.  
I get to make out with pretzel’s, trapped in a room with a group of other parents and their kids….

I'm not completely convinced by the whole fun with food thing, but I understand, it’s supposed to break down mental barriers and phobias that have built up in the kid’s heads towards food. I'll be honest enough to admit, my extreme (but hidden) lack of enthusiasm has probably got more to do with my ruffled dignity.

It is sort of nice to get to know some of the other parents with similar struggles, and at least I'm not alone in my utter mortification over smearing food on my face and pretending to be happy about it. There are executives in business suits that will be doing it too!  
I guess at the end of the day, what we do as our day job doesn’t matter, we are all just people. I was once a scientist who tested white powders for anthrax after 9/11 and cultured exotic diseases. Now I’m some kind of physio and child advocate, but just a housewife, really.  
I think about Einstein’s mother a lot. Einstein was a bit like Johnny, smart but different, possibly shades of ASD. They told his Mum he couldn’t go to school anymore that he ‘didn’t have the IQ for school,’ because he didn’t fit. She never told him that, instead she told him he was gifted, and taught him at home, because she knew her child was a gift, and an opportunity, it may not have been easy; but Einstein he changed the way the world understands science! The world is better because of his Mum knowing her son could make the world better.  
I like to believe I can make the world a bit better too, in my own small way.

Anyway, stay safe out there ok?

Your reluctant stalker, chronicler … or whatever

-M

…..

Michele read through her email asking herself why she was sending an email full of her silly insignificant blathering’s to a couple of men who had saved the world, they were honest to god monster hunters! It was beyond stupid.... and yet... Like the little drummer boy in the Christmas song, it was what she had to give.

There were other levels to it as well.

In a hostage situation, it was important for continued survival, to make your captors see you as a human being with a life, and people who cared about you and needed you to come home.  
Not that she actually was the Winchesters hostage, but she felt she was ransom to their silence about her existence, with the Supernatural. She was pretty sure Dean didn’t find her hugely likable, and he was the one with an angel for a best friend. Not that stupid stories would win him over…  
Maybe it was time to ask Peaches if it was possible to send pie in America?

It must be possible to be whatever she was, and still be....'normal.'  
Maybe it was hanging with her autistic wonder, normal had a different meaning to her, normal simply meant fitting in enough that people didn't point and stare.  
No one was ever exactly normal. Especially if the Supernatural world of monsters and other things really existed.

  
Or, maybe you had to think of it like the Supernatural was normal…. Just rare, like any other genetic anomaly.

  
Normal was like a post-it-note people stuck on others because they couldn't see what was going on under their surface.

Normal didn’t matter.

Conversely, maybe drively emails could be considered as a kind of therapy for Winchesters, what was the point of putting their life on the line daily for other people to have ‘normal lives’ if they lost touch with what normal lives looked like.

Wasn't that why Sam had kept emailing her? He wanted that didn’t he? A connection with other people and everyday stuff.  
Dean, with his pie and his car, and a million other little things; in the books he seemed to have that down most of the time.

But Sam, being more intense and prone to over thinking, less likely to get distracted by the little things, he possibly needed those reminders.  
  
All she knew was a day ago, before Winchesters and their whole world we're dropped on her head.  
She was the person who sent mildly humorous emails to people about her small little life and tried to make them smile.

She was still the same person, right?

A bit more confused, and mentally bruised, maybe, with a few newly acknowledged special features, which someone had left off the advertising material.

But she was still _her_.

She could do this, you only drowned if you stopped paddling, right?


	35. Man in the Mirror

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 35: Man in the Mirror**

  
Sam balled up a granola bar wrapper and tossed it at the cheap plastic the garbage bin, through in the bathroom.  
The wrapper missed, fluttering to the floor. He stared at it, thinking he ought to get up off the bed and dispose of it properly, glanced towards the motel door again, with a huff.  
He was bored, there was nothing left to research for the case, until after they visited the morgue in the morning and the crappy T.V had only the most basic channels. None of which were worth watching.  
Dean wasn’t back yet, probably wouldn’t be back now, until morning.

He assumed picking up burgers had morphed into picking up a waitress instead.  
Restless he glanced down at his laptop again, and saw he had a Skype message.

HobbitualPsychick 1:40AM  
Hi Sam, you're up late.

Blowing a gust of air through hair, Sam smiled.

It wasn’t really all that late by his standards, but he guessed it was for normal people.

**4:40AM  
** **You're not usually online at this time either.... is everything ok?**

HobbitualPsychick, 1:41AM  
Yes Sam -rolls eyes- I’m fine, you _really_ don’t have to keep asking. I’m not having a mental breakdown. It’s just Hubby's working late, so I'm not having my usual Matilda issues.

Matilda issues?  
Was that a code of some sort or some kind of New Zealand slang?

**1:42AM  
** **Matilda issues?**

HobbitualPsychick, 1:43AM  
It's a book, by Roald Dahl.  
Matilda is this kid with a brain, who likes books, her family forces her to watch TV... Matilda's also telekinetic, come to think of it...  
But that's neither here nor there. The point is… with hubby working late and all the kidlets in bed, I don't have to watch some T.V series on Netflix to keep hubby company. So I get to spend time with words.

HobbitualPsychick, 1:43AM  
Is your brother reading over your shoulder Sam?

**1:43AM  
** **No, Deans out, getting food.**

**1:43AM**  
**I have read Matilda, Michele.** **A long time ago.  
** **I was just wondering if you had any other... talents I should know about.**

HobbitualPsychick, 1:44AM  
Sorry to disappoint you Sam, no telekinesis -tilts head ruefully- is the whole unofficial biographer thing not enough for you?!  
Telekinesis would be w-a-y cooler and more useful….  
I asked about Dean because I take it you don’t want him knowing about TTYH, or that I’m _still_ publishing it on fanfiction. Or am I wrong?

Sam stared at the screen and shifted uncomfortably on the bed. Unsure exactly how to address the issue of Michele’s story.

HobbitualPsychick, 1:45AM  
I’m really sorry about this whole situation by the way, and I appreciate … you letting me ummm, you know.

What could he say?

**1:45AM  
** **It’s not exactly your fault. I know enough about you to see that.**

HobbitualPsychick, 1:46AM  
Thanks. Still it sucks for you, and I know you hate it.... (You don’t need to pretend for my benefit.) And I really appreciate not having to live with a constant migraine or bleeding nose.  
A LOT!

Like telling her to stop would stop her writing. It wasn’t like he and Dean were in a position to jump on a 12 flight to make her stop, were they? Besides it was her life on show too.

1 **:47AM  
****I should probably be saying sorry as well ~ Finding out like that, it can’t have been easy.**

HobbitualPsychick, 1:48AM  
-shrug- The truth is always better, even if it kinda makes your head explode at times. You know the worst part about this?

Sam rubbed a hand across his face looking at the screen.

**1:49AM  
** **I really couldn't guess.**

HobbitualPsychick, 1:50AM  
Not telling the truth. Secrets and lies, I’m not good with them… I’ve pretty much always been an open book. Now, I REALLY AM -sigh-  
And I keep remembering all of a sudden that if ghosts and stuff are real, it changes thinges… Like when I worked for MAF in the lab, the exotic disease investigators ran out of our lab, and there were all these sightings of a black panther in Cantabury. They became almost a running joke, people would swear up and down they saw it, but noone could ever find it.  
There were lots of theories about house cats and optical magnification due to heated air etc. etc... or people hoaxing, (though why someone would bother keeping up a hoax … for years! I can’t imagine)   
Now, I find myself wondering if animals can be ghosts, or how skinwalkers work. Whether that’s an explanation for it.

Sam huffed, it always happened, once people knew, they got sucked in. Started trying to understand, look for answers, and ascribe EVERYTHING to Supernatural causes.

**1:50AM**  
**I thought you said you didn’t want to know about ‘our stuff.’**  
**Supernatural explanations aren’t common. Was this panther attacking or killing people?  
** **If it wasn’t, does the reason matter?**

HobbitualPsychick, 1:52AM  
The panther was just… there.  
We don’t have any native mammals here, Sam. Except for a small (endangered) insect eating bat.  
No large introduced predators, barring Moggys and Fidos and … of course, people … There are a couple of big cats in zoos, sure.  
The worry was, someone had smuggled it into NZ without quarintine, and then set it free, that it could be carrying something like rabies, (no rabies here, nor loads of other diseases, other countries have, and _we want to keep it that way._ ) New Zealand’s clean green image is important to exports and stuff, so animal smuggling is worrying from that stand point. Also, because a panther (if it exsisted) wouldn’t have a adequate natural food source and so it might attack stock, native birdlife or people ...

Sam grunted. No large predators? Guess a hunter there wouldn’t find himself wasting weeks chasing actual _animal attacks_.

HobbitualPsychick, 1:54AM  
I guess you’re right about it not mattering, though.   
I mean ghosts can’t carry exotic diseases (can they?!) and skinwalkers would be human? … So biosecurity wise, hoax or Supernatural stuff, nothing really changes.  
Maybe that’s how you have to look at it? If it doesn’t change the issues it’s best letting it flow past you without comment.

**1:55AM**  
**There are no maybes, Michele. If you want to keep normality, it’s better to just forget this stuff.**  
 **You’re aware that people who believe in monsters, characters from books are real people, or that they have visions of the future… typically those people get medicated or locked up?**  
**Talking about ghosts and skinwalkers, I don’t advise it.**

HobbitualPsychick, 1:56AM  
I know that, Sam.   
But, you’re in a position to collect actual proof.  
I don’t understand if the Supernatural is real, why not broadcast it? Wouldn’t that protect people better?

**1:56AM  
** **People don’t want to believe, and once they do, there’s a risk they’ll start messing with stuff. Witchcraft, demon deals, you name it… Trust me ignorance protects more people.**

HobbitualPsychick, 1:57AM  
Well it _is_ kind of hard to believe any of this.  
I mean this _could_ all be an elaborate joke you’re playing on me -looks around hopefully for a hidden camera, then thinks possibly hidden cameras in the bedroom might disturb me more than the idea of _real_ monsters. -

Did she want him to convince her? Did he want to do that?

HobbitualPsychick, 1:58AM  
Oops! I keep forgetting you aren’t a girl. Non-appropriate humour! Ignore me.  
You're like ... three people in my head. Sam the trinity three in one.

HobbitualPsychick, 1:59AM  
-scuffs foot and looks embarrassed-  
I’m not used to talking to guys on line…

Anyway, Sam by my non-exact calculations, no matter where you are in America, it's got to be very late.

**2:00AM  
** **Yes, it is.**

HobbitualPsychick, 2:01AM  
Is your brother back yet? How long does it take to get food in the dead of night?

**2:01AM  
** **More than 4 hours, apparently. I tried calling him, just got his answer phone. I'm assuming he's got distracted.**

HobbitualPsychick, 2:02AM  
Distracted eh? -Rolls her eyes- why do I bet his ‘distraction’ is female?

**2:02AM  
** **Because it probably is.**

HobbitualPsychick, 2:03AM  
I’m sitting here now feeling quietly thankful to God for the Winchester brother I got stuck with, you know that?

Sam pulled a sour face, Michele had been rather adamant about not discussing what she was, but had obviously decided on the ‘god did it,’ route of explanation. Still it was harmless he guessed.

**2:03AM  
** **By God, you mean Chuck?**

HobbitualPsychick, 2:04AM  
To be honest there are aspects of 'this' that my brain seems incapable of processing, the whole God is Chuck thing.  
I'm trying hard here.  
But my brain keeps freezing and requiring a reboot when I try to ponder the ramifications of that. Much like it does over Dean’s sexscapades to be honest.

So moving on…

HobbitualPsychick, 2:05AM  
Haha Funny! It just hit me…  
If and when this conversation makes it into TTYH, there will be a bunch of sad little fic readers desperately wishing they were watching Dean right now, instead of us talking about God.

He had to smile at that. It showed that maybe she’d called her story what she had for a reason. That they were on the same side. He knew he shouldn’t be encouraging her, but there was something appealing about her outlook, and her sense of humor.

**2:05AM  
** **Hmm! You have a mean streak!**

HobbitualPsychick, 2:06AM  
Who me? -conspiratal smirk- I'm a sweet innocent little hobbit Sammy. I’m not to blame for other people’s proclivities.  
Without sex, violence or any obvious monster hunting as a lure (or descernable Winchester’s for the first 10 chapters) most people got bored and stopped reading. You know that, right?  
My friend Cougar told me TTYH is ‘a bit boring’ and advised me that ‘it needs more action to keep readers.’  
I nearly choked, let me state categorically. I like boring and action free. Anyone with a kid who has autism treasures routine and boring!

Sam supposed they had that in common.

HobbitualPsychick, 2:07AM  
-Stifles Yawn- Well Sam, because I am a boring little hobbit and a mother with beasties who wake up at the crack of dawn not some rough tough monster hunter, it's time I got some sleep.  
You know, you really ought to sleep too.  
Did you eat tonight?

**2:07AM  
** **Yes, I ate. You sound like Dean.**

HobbitualPsychick, 2:08AM  
I’m a mother Sam. It's my factory setting, unwanted nagging about eating and sleeping.  
I guess it makes some sort of sense, thinking I sound like your brother, I always thought he did kind of ‘mother like a boss,’ in the books. He is Way more maternal than either of you give him credit for.

**2:09AM  
** **Do us both a favor, never tell him that!**

HobbitualPsychick, 2:10AM  
Might surprise you dear, but I can be tactful, even if our first ‘meeting’ didn’t show it.  
Anyway… at the risk of nagging. Both of us should get some sleep.  
Your Tom Cat will come home when he's ready. He'll only call you a girl for waiting up for him.

**2:11AM**  
**You are probably right.**  
**He hasn't uh ’Tom Catted’ much recently.  
** **I’m actually glad he is, you know. Getting back to more … Dean, as normal. I worry about him.**

He knew he was dragging the conversation out again, maybe trying to keep her online, for company, as a way to avoid worrying about Dean.  
He felt a little guilty over it. But only a little.

HobbitualPsychick, 2:12AM  
I know you do Sam, but you know, you aren't all alone in worrying about Winchesters.  
-Ruffles his hair- Please try go get some sleep young man.

Sam shook his head at the screen, worrying about Winchester’s…? Ruffles his hair…? young man…?  
Umm... Wow… that was …

Before he had worked out how to respond, Michele had logged off.

…ooo0ooo…

***

Dean Winchester stood before the mirror his face wet with water ?or tears? 

"Okay." He took a breath in and sniffed, then met his own reflected eyes.  
"My name is Dean Winchester." He told himself, staring into his own eyes in the mirror as if trying to make it believe him.

"Sam is my brother."   
"Uh," his eyes flicked back and forth as if he'd forgotten a line, "Mary Winchester is my mom."

"And Cast--" he faltered and his eyes flicking sideways, searching.  
"Cas is my best friend." He finished and smiled at himself in the mirror. Then his smile cracked and fell, his lips trembled.

For a second a deeply vulnerable look of confusion and helplessness crossed his handsome features.

Taking a deep shuddering breath that seemed filled with despair, Dean looked away from his reflection, as if he couldn't stand what he saw in his own face. 

***

…ooo0ooo...

Michele woke with a whimper feeling cold and bereft.  
Smudging away the trail of blood flowing from her nose, with the back of her hand; she slipping out of bed, and walked through the dark house.

Curled up on the living room couch, she cradled her phone against her chest; unaware of the way she rocked back and forth slightly, like she always did on nights where she held a sick child in her arms, unable to do anything, but be there, pray and wait for day.

Tears gathered and slowly tracked down her cheeks in the silence. There was a hollow gulf inside her which filled with guilt. 

The man in her dream wasn't the brash cocky man she'd read of in the Supernatural books. He wasn't even the man she'd witnessed, half dead, but snarky, held captive by a mermaid in Montauk.   
The Dean Winchester she had just witnessed had seemed so _very_ lost ... and broken.

Was he pretending to be okay for his brother’s benefit?

It wouldn’t be the first time, the Supernatural books were full of it.  
Sam thought he was out seducing waitresses, had he instead been out alone somewhere, staring into a mirror.

Or was the crisis of confidence after a one-night stand.

That thought crushed her with guilt. She'd been such a bitch to Dean. And why? Because he had a history of sleeping round, and she didn’t?

Despite everything she knew of what he had done and endured she’d been so judgemental, mean and downright rude.

It took two people to tango, Dean was an attractive guy, women liked him. Just because he wasn’t brought up with the same morals and prohibitions as she was, it didn’t make her any better.

Sure, she had apologised; but once spoken, words couldn’t be unsaid. Their damage was done.

In her dream Dean had seemed so lost, almost scared, staring into that mirror, trying to convince himself of who he was.  
No one should feel like that. Especially not someone who had given so much of himself for the greater good.

Was any of this because of what she’d said?  
She was helpless to fix it, if it was, her words were beyond recall.

Michele sat in the dark thinking about her talk with Sam, the night before, she wondered if she ought to say something, whether she ought to have a discussion with Sam, regarding Dean.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam Winchester sat at the small table in the motel room, alone. Trying not to worry about his brother, and failing. Trying not to be irritated with his brother, and failing.

When his phone finally rang, it came up with an unknown caller.

"Hello?" He queried. 

"Sam?" Dean’s voice filled him with equal measures of relief and irritation.

"Dude," he rocked back in his chair letting his irritation drive, "where the hell have you been?"

"I'm not really sure about that." Dean’s voice seemed uncertain.

"You—" Sam reeled back in his irritation a bit and stopped himself. “Well, where are you now?" 

"I'm not real sure about that either. I, um..." Dean paused and seemed to be searching, a truck horn blared in the background.  
"Oh. Haha. I'm starvin'. How you feel about waffles?" Dean sounded much more like himself now, but he wasn’t making much sense.

"W-what?" he spluttered, wondering if Dean was still drunk.

"Dumb question. Right? What psycho doesn't love waffles?  
I mean, they're fluffy. You got the little pockets full of syrup. You just cover 'em in whipped cream… Am I right?  
Anyway! Meet me at Waldos', okay?" Dean rambled on cheerfully.

"Hey ... M—." Sam sighed, as his brother hung up in his ear.

...ooo0ooo...

Sam walked into Waldos' and scoped the restaurant for his brother, caught sight of Dean, stuffing his face with single minded determination.

Both irritated and glad to see his brother back to something more normal; he reminded himself of last night and how he’d said to Michele, that he wanted Dean back to his normal, _Tom catting_ self.  
So, he decided to react with humor towards Dean’s little blowout, instead of irritation.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets and smiling indulgently, Sam wandered over. 

Dean looked up at him. "Oh. Hey, did you bring any, um..." Dean pointed at his head and winced.

Sam grinned, slid into the booth beside his brother, and grabbed a bottle of pills out of his pocket.  
Shook them once, just to see Dean wince, then passed them over into Dean’s eager hands.

"Y-es!”

"Sounded like you could use it."

"Oh, man."

"Rough night?"

"Rough morning." Dean chuckled and downed the pills.

"W-what happened? I mean, you just went out to get some food."

"I don't know.." 

"What does that mean?" Sam frowned at his brother.

"I-I guess I blacked out."

Sam looked heavenwards and rolled his eyes but couldn't quite hold back an amused smile.

"…and judging from this hangover, it was epic."

"Well, _I tried to call you!_ ” Sam told his brother pointedly.

"Um... Oh." Dean held up his phone, with a very smashed screen, tossed it back onto the table. "N-ot sure how that happened..."

Sam huffed. "Great. All right, well, I'll text Mom, make sure she knows to get ahold of me, in case of an emergency. And Cas, in case he tracks down Kelly."

Dean looked up from his waffles, eyes narrowed, lips pursed in puzzlement and shook his head slightly.

"The mother of Lucifer's love child?" Sam reminded him, frowning again. _How much had Dean drunk last-night?_

"Right. Right. Yes, the Devil, baby, mama, drama." Dean sniggered to himself. “Say that five times fast. Devil, baby, mama, drama,” he said using his Elvis impersonator voice.

"All right, Dean. You know, uh," Sam searched for the right words, “you’ve had a good run, but maybe let's pump the brakes a little bit. I mean, you're not 20 anymore."

Dean gave him the expected unimpressed look.

"Okay; one, the Rat Pack partied till the day they died. And B, I can still kick your ass." Dean shoved a forkful of waffle into his mouth for emphasis.

Sam scoffed and nodded, totally unconvinced.

"Mmm.” Dean looked up and saw a server, “Got a man who needs some waffles down here!" he announced, because of course, Dean was going to try and stuff him full of sugar laden carbs.

"Oh, no. I'm -- I'm fine. I'm..."

"You can just take these if you want..." Dean shoved his second order of waffles at Sam.

"No, Dean. Look, the morgue opens in, like, 10 minutes."

"The morgue?" Dean queried, looking weirdly puzzled again.

"The autopsy results. Are you _still drunk_?"

"I don't think so..." Dean muttered.

Sam in towards his brother and sniffed; Dean didn’t smell like alcohol. His brother gave him an irritated, warning look in response. _Back_ _off Sam._

"All right, our... our case Mmm? Dead guy, throat stuffed full of money. _Any of this ring any bells?"_

"Right, yes. Right. Um...the accountant... Barry Gilman."

"Right. _Right!”_

"Uh, and you think he got his ticket punched by a demon."

"Maybe..."

"Okay, but when we went over to his place yesterday, we got a whole bunch of jack and a little bit of squat. There was no hex bags, no EMF, no sulfur… Which means... no case."

"Yeah, but, if it's not a case, then what is it?"

"I don't know. Death by money? You know, maybe the guy got whacked by, uh, some mob dude with an ironic sense of humor?”

Sam chuckled. "All right. Well, I'm gonna go scope out the body. If you wanna spend some more alone time with, uh, your waffles... All right. Have fun."

"Fine,” Dean grumped, “hold up." He got to his feet and made to follow San.

"Did you pay?" He asked.

"Oops! No. Right." DETM hunted his pockets.

"You got it?"

I got it." Dean tossed money on the table.

About then a young woman walked up behind Dean and smiled nervously.

  
"Hi."

"Hi." Dean grinned and shot Sam a look, before looking back to the girl.

  
"And _who are you_?" He rumbled charm oozing.

The woman looked shocked, then annoyed, then she slapped Dean in the face and marched off.

Behind them the woman's friends laughed.

"Yep. Epic night!" Dean announced and turned jauntily on his heel, walking out.


	36. Lemons

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 36: Lemons**

Sam sighed, Barry Gilman the accountant had been hexed by a witch, stuffing him so full of cash that he had choked on it. 

The night before, Dean had run into that witch at the local bar, after ordering burgers, riding a mechanical bull and generally ‘being Dean.’

Dean also being Dean, he had recognized the witch from one of the photos on Barry's Gilmans office wall and chased him into the woods. Hadn’t called to give Sam a heads up.

Apparently, the witch must have cursed Dean with some sort of progressive memory loss curse. 

At first labeling things with post-it-notes had been sort of funny. (A tribute to the movie memento.)

Dean had been sort of funny as well, like a little kid, full of wonder over the details of their life, as if it was all some kind of adventure story... a work of fiction come to life.

There had been moments when Sam had actively envied his brother, the weight seemed to have fallen from his shoulders, leaving him free. 

Rowena's advice had been, ‘undo the curse by killing the witch.’

That hadn’t seemed too hard. A job they were getting to anyway.

But the witch was already dead. Because Dean had shot him. The men of letters files had nothing, and Sam was at a loss. 

More than that, the curse was progressing, and Sam could see parts of Dean slipping away before his eyes.

All he could hope, was that Rowena would recognize the glyph they'd found in the woods, and that somehow she could give them a clue on how to break the curse. 

Sending off the message, Sam swallowed and glanced up worriedly at his brother, noted the slump to Deans shoulders, then looked back at the laptop. 

There was an email from Michele waiting. A distraction.

"We've got mail Dean."

Dean looked up and offered him a smile. As if Sam had given him a gift.

Sam cleared his throat and began reading 

_"Hello and how are my two most favourite boys in all of America?"_

"It's an email from Mom?" Dean asked, with the most heart-breakingly hopeful smile.

Sam opened his mouth to correct him, then suddenly, he just didn't have the heart to tell Dean the email was from a stranger on the other side of the world, that they hadn't heard from their mother for days (Dean'd demanded they didn't tell her or Cas about the curse, after they worked out what was going on. So, neither knew. Not that they'd told Michele anything either… and it appeared she was in the dark.) But even so, Mom wasn't given to sending emails like this one. 

Dean wandered over, and rested one hand on Sam’s shoulder to read the words for himself while listening to his brother read at the same time.

_"I find myself awake tonight and thinking of you both, of the things you have done and what good men you both are._  
_Dean Winchester, that statement is true whether you believe me or not, and Sam please don't roll your eyes.  
_ _Of all people on earth right now, I would know, wouldn't I? -Half smile- I know you boys aren't given to 'chick flick' moments, but let's face it I'm a chick and a mother, so I'll write what I want, and if you read it, that's up to you."_

Sam rubbed his hand over his eyes, aware of the gulf between 'his' Dean, and the one leaning against his shoulder.

By now 'his' Dean would have been making snarky comments or have moved off, and be pretending to ignore him, uncomfortable with the emotion and continued contact.

Briefly, he allowed himself to lay his hand over Dean’s on his shoulder. Soaked up the warmth from his brother’s calloused hand. Swallowed past a jumble of emotions, and cleared his throat, continuing to read.

_"Life has so often given you lemons, but somehow you manage to make not just lemonade but Limoncello, (which is something I had to look up, it's an Italian lemon liquor. In this world one thing is certain, if it's not poisonous, someone will have enough drive will make alcohol out of it. *grin*)_  
_Not only that, you somehow use it to save the world. Not figuratively save the world but in actual fact. Well ok, usage of lemon products is figurative... But the saving the world bit is and was real.  
_ _You are quite literally the reason the sun shines. So, look up at it once in a while and remember that. And be proud of yourselves… ok?_

_Maybe not everyone knows, but I do._

_So, for all the people that don't know. On their behalf… I want to say you boys are amazing and Thank You._

_-M “_

Sam cleared his throat and looked back over his shoulder at his brother’s face. For a second Dean seemed to stand straighter, a glow to his face. 

Then, his eyes went unfocused, again as the curse took a firmer grip of his mind. He let go of Sam’s shoulder and wandered away across the room.

Sam pinched at the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes, an ache filling his chest.

Stupid emails were all very well, but they weren't going to help, no matter how kind or well intention-ed. 

Sam opened the photo of the dead witch again, as much to stare at the dead man and hope he suffered, as to look for clues. 

....

Dean wandered back into the room from the bathroom; caught sight of the computer screen and the photo of the dead witch.

"Is that a dead guy?" He asked sounding astonished.

"Yeah."

"Whoa! Never seen a dead guy before." Dean enthused leaning against the door jamb behind Sam.

Sam chuckled humorlessly. "Uh, yeah, you have. Trust me." he secretly winced and breathed a sigh.

There was a knock at the door. Dean bounded over to answer it. No caution at all.

"Hey! No, D-Dean, wait a second." Sam cautioned leaping to his feet and drawing his gun.

But Dean had already opened the door.

There stood Rowena. 

Dean looked at Rowena without recognition, and shot Dam a querying look. 

"Who are you?" he asked Rowena.

"Spell's progressed, I see." Rowena commented as she invited herself in.

"I wanted Intel, Rowena, not a-house call." Sam fumed.

"Oh, I have a feeling you'll come to thank me." Rowena told him mildly, and turned back to Dean to begin examining him. 

Dean looked back at her happily, "Mmm, your hair,“ he chirped, “it's all so ... _bouncy_." .

"Why, thank you. Mm-hmm." Rowena purred. " _Do we have to fix him_?" She asked shooting Sam an amused half pleading look.

"Rowena." He grated in warning.

" _Samuel_." She re-joined mildly. "Those glyphs you found are an archaic form of Celtic. Ogham Chraobh. The Druids used it in their rituals, calling it the “Language of the Trees.”

"Wait, wait?! Now the trees are talkin'?" Dean asked, totally serious.

Rowena gave him an amused contemptuous look.

Suddenly Sam felt mortified on his brother’s behalf. "Uh, Dean, do you remember HBO?"

"Um..."

"Cinemax?"

"Skinemax." Dean grinned like a five-year-old.

"Great. All right come here. We're just gonna. We're gonna sit you down, right here." He pushed Dean onto the bed and searched for the remote, "…and, uh, yeah, go ahead. Um..." 

"Like live Skinemax or..." Dean queried.

Sam turned the TV on.

"Hey!" Dean chortled happily, his eyes lighting up at a kids’ cartoon.

"Perfect." Sam patted his brothers’ shoulder. "Stay there." 

"Come here." He beckoned Rowena towards the laptop.

"There's only one family of witches versed in this kind of magic. I thought them all dead for years, but when I saw those glyphs..." 

"Is this one of 'em?" Sam asked, showing Rowena the photo of the dead witch. 

"Gideon Loughlin." Rowena spat the name.

"Did you know him?"

"A bit." Rowena stated primly with a mild shrug.

"All right, tell me about this family."

"A hundred years ago, the Loughlins came over from the Old World and turned a small town on the Mississippi Delta into their own personal fiefdom. Their children -- Gideon, Boyd, and Catriona -- were like three rotten little peas in a pod. The family possessed a powerful spell book, a tome of Druidic magic called the Black Grimoire. Witches came from all around the world to live with them and study its secrets... for a price."

"So, what happened to 'em?"

"Hunters happened." Rowena sounded almost glad. "Of course, I'd heard rumors one or two survived, stealing away with their book, but I-I dismissed them as gossip."

From the bed, Dean laughed at something infantile on the cartoon. Looking up he grinned at them happily, totally oblivious to the weight of the situation.

Like a child.

Sam and Rowena shared a look and Sam huffed another sigh.

"With Gideon dead, if you want to break the curse on your brother, we need to find that book."

"Wait a second. So, _you_ can't break it?"

"Oh, of course I _could_ , but witchcraft this complex would take _time_ , more than Dean's got." They both looked over at Dean again. "He's already begun to forget himself, everyone he's ever known…. ever loved. _Even you_. Soon he'll forget how to speak, how to swallow, and then... Dean Winchester's going to die."

"Sucks for that guy." Dean commented from his seat on the bed.

Sam tasted despair.

…ooo0ooo…

  
Michele let out a strangled cry and fell to her knees, on the kitchen floor.

Pain, a blinding spike of it, lanced her skull and blinded her eyes.

A quick deadly shuffle of images. 

**

Herself, her face set and stubborn. A blank Skype dialog box in front of her.

The redheaded witch, Rowena pinned to the wall, face battered and bloody. Body twisted gruesomely.

Impaled with hundreds of shards of broken mirror, her hair nearly as red as the blood that had drained from her, with her life. 

Sam's body tied to a chair also drained of blood, covered in strange symbols… achingly dead, while a man and a woman stood chanting over a very dead looking man, that suddenly the man drew breath and sat up with a self-satisfied smile. 

Dean, his eyes blank, mindless and absent, lying in the dirt, by his beloved impala, taking a last rattling breath and then, just… no more... Dead. 

Again, an image of herself doing nothing. The Skype dialogue box empty of words. 

Then, words. Filling a screen. A story quickly finished.

Completion and release.... Freedom!

The end. 

An image of herself, much older with her arm round a young woman in a wedding dress and a green-eyed young man dressed in a tuxedo, posing for photos.

Her precious son’s wedding day. Her husband, daughters and youngest son all laughing and glowing with happiness.

***

Blood pattered, thick and red onto the mottled linoleum between her hands as Michele rocked back onto her knees.   
Dazed, horrified and confused by the images.

Sam, Dean and Rowena, Dead? 

No! 

And yet... the vision seemed to indicate she'd be free... that there could be a happily ever after, for her…  
  
Hard on the heels, a second series of images caught her unprepared. 

***

An unbelievably vivid vision of her phones clock, the time indelibly etched into her mind. 

Her fingers typing, filling a Skype dialog box with words. Issuing a set of instructions. 

Rowena sitting at the laptop keyboard on the other end. 

Rowena producing a pile of post-it notes. 

Dean waking up alone in the impala, seeing post-it notes on the side window and windscreen, in the trunk, on the grenade launcher, witch killing bullets and gun. 

Then, the sound of shots fired. 

Sam pacing at the bottom of a flight of stairs.

A red hued flash.

Then Dean and Rowena walking down the stairs. Dean asking something.

A look of horror on Sam's face, a shared look between the redheaded witch and Dean.

Laughter from both.

Sam’s look of horror and despair melting into a grudging smile. 

The sound of both Winchester boys laughing. 

Alive.

An image of blood on her hands, on the floor, everywhere. Her son calling for her, muffled, distorted and far off.

Then, blackness.

***

The two series of visions came again and again faster and faster. 

The message was clear.

**Choose**.

You have and out. But to get it, Sam and Dean Winchester will die. 

Or you could intervene, and break cover… to a witch. If you tell her what to do, Sam and Dean Winchester will live.

 _For now_ , but there was no promise of how things would end for her. 

Michele looked at the clock. She had two hours to decide.


	37. Like Sands Through the Hourglass

**The Thing You Hate**

  
**Chapter 37: Like Sands Through the Hourglass**

Sam walked out of the bathroom leaving his brother alone in there behind him.  
He had spent the past 20 minutes telling Dean his life story; telling his brother who he was.  
Like a child trying to hold back the tide with his bare hands, trying to save his sandcastle. He could feel his brother slipping away through his fingers, nothing he could do was holding him together.

Sam felt completely useless, beyond helpless.

One of the hardest things he had ever had to do was walk away from Dean, focus on fixing this and do what needed to be done, instead of fruitlessly clinging to Dean by trying to hold what was left of his brother together by sheer force of will; to stop telling him over and over who he was and how much he MEANT to Sam.  
To risk what was left of Dean... falling away into nothingness, like sands through an hour glass. To bet those moments he had left with his brother, the most important person in his life, against getting a book from a bunch of witches.

  
"How is he?" Rowena inquired, a picture of overflowing concern, when he stepped through the bathroom door.

  
There was a gulf inside hI’m that was incrementally filling up with despair and anger.

  
"Like you care." he rounded on her, his anger finding a target, in the witch who had, in the past tried to kill them both.

  
"Oh." Rowena gasped, maybe a trifle theatrically. But still, maybe there was an echo of hurt in there as well; Sam didn't have the emotional reserves just then to judge.

  
He couldn't deny, however, that _she was here,_ for whatever reason she was here, helping.  
He ached to have Cas here, Dad or Bobby back, to have someone he could truely trust, instead of the fickle, self-serving, red-haired witch.

  
He exhaled, sat down on the bed and ran a weary hand over his face. Suddenly, he felt unbearably lonely.   
Ached to express the agony inside to someone, even if it was Rowena.

  
"You know, I've seen my brother die, but watching him become... not him..." he took a breath; in and out. "….This might actually be worse..."

  
From the bathroom, he faintly heard Dean’s voice. " _My name is Dean Winchester... Sam is my brother. Mary Winchester is my mother... Cast... Cas is my best friend."_

  
God! He shouldn't let Rowena in like this, he couldn't trust her. Struggling, he worked to shore up his defenses.

  
"We need to find that grimoire." Rowena declared fiercely.

  
Sam looked up, winced and shook his head, as it hit him.  
"Of course. Of course." He let out a huff of frustration, rubbing the back of his head "T-hat's your angle, isn't it?" He flared.

  
"-Oh..."

  
"Oh, come _on_ , Rowena. A powerful spell book shows up and all of a sudden, you're here to help? _Altruism isn't exactly your style."_

  
Rowena opened her mouth, then shrugged and gave him a coy little smile. "True. Also, it never hurts to have a Winchester owe you one."

  
"Gideon Loughlin's address was in his accountant's file. If the book is there, I'll find it." He said grabbing his jacket, deciding upon action.

  
"Of course, you'll need me there to help --"

  
"No, no, you're staying here with Dean."

  
" _I most certainly am not."_

  
"Well, he can't come with me, and I'm not leaving him alone. And I _obviously_ don't trust you."

  
"Well, _obviously_. The Black Grimoire's written in ancient Druid. How do you propose to find a proper spell without me there to --"

  
"Well, you said a few of the Loughlins survived, right? That was the rumor?"

  
"So’, you expect one of them to -- to what? Translate their ancient super-secret family spell book for you? You just killed their brother. _They'd sooner use your skin as an outfit!_ ”

  
Sam pulled out his gun, full of witch killing bullets, and smiled a grim smile.

  
"They can try." He said and walked out the door.

  
…ooo0ooo…

  
"Stop touching everything." Rowena snapped at Dean slapping his hand, as he fiddled, yet again, with the spell components she had laid out.

  
"Sorry." He muttered turning away.

Moments later he turned back, at it again, reaching out to touch, like Fergus had as a toddler.

  
"Ugh. Here." She shoved a voodoo doll and some pins at him. "Play with this, ... and I'll tell you a story.

  
"Oh good!"

  
"Once," Rowena began in a Storytime for children voice "a beautiful witch was, again, run out of her homeland," Dean sat poking at the doll, "by those pompous, self-righteous, murderous hooligans."

Dean looked across at her, listening."You know them as The British Men of Letters." She continued coaxingly, Dean gave her a small grin, indicating he'd heard her, then gave a little head shake, showing he had no memory of the people in question.

  
"She sought refuge with a family of witches. All she wanted was a roof over her head and a safe place to hone her magic. Yet, they threw her out like... like common trash. Said she wasn't up to snuff..."

  
Dean turned and looked at her, "Oh, these witches sound like dicks." Rowena smiled, "I think you got plenty of snuff."

  
Rowena laughed and looked down pleased, then blinked, remembering suddenly that with the curse, his words meant less than nothing.

  
"You can really remember nothing, can you?" She asked cynically

  
Dean’s lips quirked in response.

  
"What a gift not to recall the things you've done!” Rowena said feeling wistful.

  
"What _have_ I done?" He asked with that goofy smile of his.

  
"Oh, you're a killer, Dean Winchester." She informed him in a subtle purr.

  
Dean frowned and his face crumpled. "Wait, I ... I _kill people?"_

  
"Scores." She informed him maliciously, he looked away like a hurt child and tiny portion of her rebelled at the cruelty.

  
"But,...but... though you may be a stubborn pain in the arse with the manners of a Neanderthal and the dining habits of a toddler, everything you've done, you've done..." she let out a disgusted sigh, "for the greater good."

  
"Oh, and that's supposed to make it okay?" Dean asked, not mollified.

  
Rowena scoffed, "I wouldn't know. You help those other than yourself. But me?" She walked around and sat next to him. "I've done horrible things, and I told myself it was fine. It was the price of power. And power's what matters, right? Then I met God and his sister. The two most powerful beings in the universe, wasting it on squabbling with each other. I thought, if -- if they can't be happy, or at least satisfied, how can there be any hope for me?"

Dean’s face filled with confusion, and his eyes flicking back and forth trying to understand or work out how to respond to her words.

  
"Why are you telling me this?" he asked at last.

  
Rowena gave him a slightly malicious smile. "Because, I know you won't remember." She told him and bopped him on the nose mockingly with a finger.

  
The cell phone rang.

  
"You're in?" She asked.

  
_"S-hh._ Yeah, I'm in." Sam's voice informed her.

  
"All right. As soon as I get the translation, you cast the spell."

  
…

  
"This gun is full of witch-killing bullets." Sam's voice announced to someone in the room. "So why don't you go to your grimoire and tell me how to break the memory spell?"

  
"I told him you'd come." A female voice responded, "Boyd wanted to go after you," it continued, "but I said, ‘Why bother?’ You're hunters. You'll hunt us down, right at our doorstep. Hot and... fresh like pizza."

  
"I'm not asking you again." Sam's voice was full of deadly threat.

  
" _Abi_!" the woman’s voice barked; and there was a sound of an impact and things falling.

Somewhere Sam groaned.

  
" _Age nunc intellectum. Age nunc intellectum atque voluntatem omnem meam."_

  
Through the phone there was a high-pitched ringing sound and the woman laughed, amused and cruel…. then, there was screaming.

  
"Sam?" Dean cried in horror as the phone cut out.

  
Less than a moment later Rowena was collecting her spell fixings, she looked back across at Dean.

Already the memory of his brother’s screams, and the peril he was surely in had been washed from his mind.

  
She could walk away now, and no one would know or care…

  
And yet... a small part of Rowena rebelled at the thought of such self preservation. She shrugged the emotion away ruthlessly.

  
From the table on the other side of the room there was a peal of sound from the laptop. Drawn by the sound Dean wandered over to it.

  
"Lady do you know anyone called Ro-wee-na, or Dean," he asked her, "the," he waved his hand, "thing wants em."

  
Frowning Rowena crossing the room and looked at the screen.

  
HobbitualPsychick, 6:05PM  
Rowena!

Dean! Please this is important, you need to show the lady with the red hair this, please!

If you don't the Loughlins are going to kill you ALL. I can help, please let me help! I know a way for all of you to live, you just have to do as I say.

  
"Who is this HobbitualPsychik?" Rowena asked looking at Dean, not really expecting a reply.

Dean frowned, then a smile lit his face.  
"She's our Mom." He informed her a touch questioningly.

  
HobbitualPsychick, 6:06PM  
I can see the future!

  
The person behind the messenger screen declaired boldly.

  
HobbitualPsychick, 6:06PM  
Rowena, please! All I'm asking you to do is write the following notes. Put Dean and them in the impala like I tell you and then do what you are going to do anyway… Try to help Sam and get that book. My way you get what you want. You all live. Please!

  
For a moment, Rowena looked at the screen undecided, she had always known both Winchester boys had a certain level of untapped talent, Samuel more than Dean; she'd seen it in action often enough and almost smell it on their skin when they were close. They were legacy Men of Letters after all.  
How else did they think they managed to do spell work?!

  
Not that the idiotic oh so moral Winchesters would ever use or harness their god given talents for more than hunting monsters and saving damsels in distress. It was such a waste!

  
….A mother who had returned from the dead ... with the ability to see the future.  
It made sense.

**6:08PM  
Alright then. What am I to do?**

  
Rowena typed by way of reply, picking up a pen and a pad.

  
…ooo0ooo…

  
He woke in the car, in front of him was a note taped to the windscreen.

Pulling it off he read the words written out loud.

  
“Your brothers been kidnapped by a witch. I found your stupid car and left you here."

  
"Stupid?!!" he queried looking around frowning, "…Okay,” he went to get out of the car, only to be confronted by a note on the side window.

  
“Stay”

  
He looked over his shoulder and shifted uncomfortably.

  
He needed to follow orders.

  
His eyes were drawn to the house.

  
Again, he looked at the note on the side window.

  
“Stay”

  
This time he pulled it off the window, read it again with a grunt.

Was just about to crumple it up, when he saw words on the back.

  
"Go to the trunk and open it."

  
He got out and opened the trunk.

  
Another note greeted him.

  
“Open me”

  
He followed those orders and opened the compartment underneath.

  
Was greeted with the mother lode of weapons. "Whoa!" He breathed in happy amazement.

  
His green eyes lit on a grenade launcher hungrily, but there was a note on it that said.

  
“NO!!”

  
Two other things had notes.  
“WITCH KILLING BULLETS” on a box of ammo and “THIS GUN” on an ivory handled gun.

  
He pulled the gun and the ammo out of the trunk, loading the gun purely by muscle memory.

  
The gun felt _right_ in his hand.

  
Looking down at the note still in his hand, he looked back at the house. "Your brother’s been kidnapped by a witch..."

...Brother...

_(...Look out for your brother Dean...)_

_That was the most important order of all._

  
...

  
He walked into the room, a red headed woman was pinned to the wall by an unseen force. Her face was bloody. A shard of mirror was embedded in the wall by her frightened face.

  
Another other woman, a taller blonde, (?witch?) gripped another shard of broken mirror ready to throw it, like she was some knife thrower in the circus or playing a deadly game of darts.

  
He cocked the gun, the sound was loud in the space, both women glanced at him, the redhead with relief, the blonde with contempt.

  
"A gun?" the blonde tutted, "do you really think that's going to work on u—“

  
He held up the note, "WITCH KILLING BULLETS," she gave him a sketchy half smile and turned to throw the mirror shard at the redhead.

  
Before she could, he pulled the trigger, the blonde (?witch?) fell dead and the redhead slid to the floor.

  
A doorway at the top of the stairs flew open, and a tall man pursued another down the stairs.

  
Both men stopped at the sight of him standing there, at the foot of the stairs, with a gun pointed at them.

  
His gun wavered between the two men, then aimed at the larger of the two, the one who had been doing the chasing.

  
The large man with the floppy hair gave him an incredulous look and raised his hands.

  
"No, no, no! Brother" he pointed at himself. "Witch." He pointed at the man below him on the stairs.

  
He shot the witch through the heart.

  
The floppy haired man, _his brother_ , took a few gasping breaths and slumped against the banister in relief.

  
He gave the guy, ?his brother? a goofy smile and a thumbs-up.

  
…ooo0ooo…

  
Sam stood at the base of the stairs, waiting and pacing.

  
There was a chanted incantation and a red hued flash.

  
Rowena walked down the stairs, with the grimoire cradled against her chest, followed by his brother.

  
"Hey. Is that it? Is — is it done?" he asked nervously.

  
"Who's this hippie?" Dean asked, his face completely blank, no recollection.

  
Sam's face crumpled, and he raised his arms helplessly, wanting to cry, or to beg Rowena to somehow bring his brother back.

  
Then Dean gave a wheezing chuckle and looked at Rowena, they both broke into grins.

  
"Look at his face." Dean crowed, "Oh! Kind of like the time when I ate all your Halloween candy. You remember that? Classic!”

  
Sam took a few huffy panicked breaths, a let them leak away.

  
“Not funny." He grated, unsure if he wanted to slug Dean or hug him, then finally let a flinching smile of relief break across his face.


	38. Luck Has Nothing To Do With It

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 38: Luck Has Nothing To Do With It**

Michele sighed tucking her hair back behind her ears, tried to concentrate on the conversation she was supposed to be having with her son’s teacher, while her insides constricted and twisted with anxiety. 

She was worried. Worried about two men, and a bloody witch on the other side of the world. Actually, she was sort of hoping the witch wasn't bloody, even if witches did bad, evil things and this one’s son was the king of hell.

She had made her choice, done what she could or should... but now she could do nothing, but wait, wonder and worry. 

Was it enough? Were they okay? 

Damn, it was as bad, or worse than all the times she had sat on tender-hooks in waiting rooms or at home, waiting for word on operations, injuries or test results for her family members; or for a husband to come home, hours past the defined point of 'late,' whose cellphone didn't answer. 

Being a wife and mother was loaded with those moments.

To care was to worry... often fruitlessly and usually unadmitted or acknowledged.

It would probably help if she knew for certain if she had a right to worry about Winchesters. 

She wasn't really part of their world; they had been thrust upon each other by a weird set of circumstances.   
The ficwriters cry, "Not mine," surely still applied, maybe more so now that she knew they weren't fictional characters. 

She doubted very much if the Winchester brothers would appreciate her worrying about them, especially Dean. 

To top it off she really didn't feel like she had any right to bother them by asking if they were okay.

Even if they were perfectly fine, she doubted she'd hear anything anytime soon, they had bigger things to worry about - they probably always would. 

So she better get used to this feeling.

Once home, the familiar ache in her head announced that she would once again need to do some writing. 

She went to it almost eagerly. 

Maybe now she'd get some answers.

…ooo0ooo…

Michele stared at the Chapter irritably; she wanted to know what was happening to Sam and Dean! She wanted to know if they were ok....

The whole seeing the future thing, was all very well, but what was the point of it, if it refused to tell her _the one thing_ she wanted? 

Instead what did she get? A chapter detailing her melt down over finding out that Sam was Sam Winchester. 

It was hardly complementary ... leaning sharply towards humiliating and embarrassing!

A big part of her rebelled at the thought of Sam knowing how much of a pathetic baby she was, or worse yet at some point ... Dean reading it, as if she wasn't already beyond contempt to him, just for being a blasted ficwriter.

But her pride wasn't any more important to the force that demanded this record, than Sam or Dean’s. 

The pain in her skull twisted a notch higher as she dithered. A demand and warning not to get any ideas. 

Yeah, she got the message. 

The Winchester gospel, fanfic edition was going to be _exactly_ what it was supposed to be, or its author would pay, in blood, pain and tears. 

A random wondering struck her, how many times had she heard of the Bible described as being, "God inspired and God breathed... the word of God." 

Briefly, she wondered if the 66 books of the bible, said to be written by 40 different authors, were produced in a similar way...

Michele pushed the thoughts away and went back to work. 

Tossing in a few more commas, and ignoring her own mortification, Michele posted the chapter.

...ooo0ooo...

SWRocksaltandsilver, 4:22PM  
Michelle

Michele's heart simultaneously quieted and begun racing seeing the Skype message from Sam.

 **4:23PM  
** **Hi Sam... is everyone ok there?**

SWRocksaltandsilver, 4:24PM  
It's not Sam. It’s Dean.

The reply came, which explained she realised, why Sam had misspelt name.

  
Michele bit her lip feeling like a kid in the principals office. 

4:25PM  
Hi Dean, are you… ok?

SWRocksaltandsilver, 4:26PM  
Got my ass handed to me by a freaking witch dude

**4:27PM  
** **Umm yeah, I sort of know some of that. Are you.. ok ...now?**

SWRocksaltandsilver, 4:28PM  
Yeah, u do Don’t u.  
I'm fine, some stuffs foggy.   
But see the thing about Skype is it keeps records

Michele suddenly felt cornered.

**4:29PM  
** **Oh**

SWRocksaltandsilver, 4:30PM  
’Oh’ she says. Seems we need to talk.

**4:31PM  
** **We really don't Dean. I promise.**

Michele cringed slightly staring at the screen, unsure exactly what Dean wanted to say but not looking forward to it.

SWRocksaltandsilver, 4:32PM  
We can actually use this to talk. Rather than type you know

Michele would have fled in blind panic if she could have, she didn't want Dean Winchester looking at her, or judging her for everything she wasn't.

It was only a memory of the man standing in front a mirror that kept her logged on. 

**4:34PM  
** **I’m not 100% sure how too, I've never done anything but type before**

She protested weakly.

**4:35PM  
** **and the cat ate the webcam cord...**

She told him, both truthfully and evasively, staring at the smart phone in her hand. Knowing full well, from talking with Peaches, that her phone was quite capable of doing video chat. If she and Peaches weren’t so shy about it.

**4:35PM  
** **Is Sam round?**

MSWRocksaltandsilver, 4:35PM  
Sam's busy, you're stuck with the degenerate Winchester brother today.

And just like that, he sliced past all her defenses. She tapped on the phone icon at the top of the Skype box.

"Dean Winchester don't you dare call yourself that, you're a hero. You are one of the most selfless people I know..." she began fiercely.

A deep chuckle met her words,  
"Hello to you too." He replied amused.

"Uh—“ Michele suddenly found that her voice had given out on her.

"Cat get your tongue as well as your webcam?" 

"No, I..." 

_"Mum who are you talking to?"_ Michele flinched guiltily at the sound of her oldest son’s voice.

"Uh... " Michele felt trapped between the hunter and her son’s green eyes. "Remember Mummy’s fic-friend that made her sad by telling her a fib?  
This is his big brother, his name is Dean." She told her son quietly, hoping Dean didn't catch much of the side conversation.

"Dean, you should teach your little brother not to tell lies," her son admonished both loudly and sternly.   
Michele flinched wondering how the hunter would respond to being twitted by an 8-year-old. 

"What's your name buddy?" Dean asked.

"Johnny,” her son replied.

"Well Johnny, you're a big brother, too right? Does your little brother _always_ do what ya teach him?" Dean asked him seriously.

Michele's heart melted slightly listening to Dean, bur her protective instincts screamed at her, to get the Winchester away from her son.

"No," Johnny admitted, "Chris _hardly ever_ does what me and the sisters say. Mum says he's a brat and takes after Dad." 

"Maybe your Mom’s right, but keep tryin' Sport, it's a big brother's job to try an’ teach his kid brother to act proper." 

"You and your brother went away, you made Mum _sad_..." 

_Oh! She had to cut this conversation short!_

"Johnny hon, you can go get yourself and Chris another biscuit. Apparently Mummy and Dean need to talk..." 

"Yay!" Her son enthused then stopped mid-dash. "Dean, don't make my Mum sad again!  
You're _lucky_ she cares about you, and your brother ... _so don't be mean_!" then her son was gone. 

"Ugh _I'm_ _sorry_ Dean, he's gone now.... please don't listen to him... he's only 8... gahds that was... " she murmured, embarrassed and surprised by her son’s outburst.

"That was... true." Dean finished her sentence sounding thoughtful, " _I am lucky you give a damn_ ; you stuck your neck out, I can see how things mighta ended different. So ... thanks... an’ I thought you might wanna know, if you didn't already, that Rowena thinks you're our Mom... So you're good..." 

"Oh. Umm..." Michele frowned, puzzled. " _Why_ does a witch think I'm your mother?"

"Cos Sam's a bitch, ‘n’ needs a lecture from your kid 'bout not tellin’ lies." The hunters voice held a complicated mix of humor and irritation. 

Silence lagged.

"You write lots, but you don't say much, do you." Dean observed.

Michele took a breath, "I'm sorta scared here Dean, and bit tongue tied." 

"Hey, we aren't gonna hurt you." There was a ‘soothing the frightened witness’ tone in Dean’s voice.

"I'm not scared you'll hurt me." Michele tried to explain. "I'm scared you'll think I'm an idiot! I know you don't like me much, and I'm scared of making it worse. I'm just a silly little hobbit and you're the guys that stopped the apocalypse and saved the world. I'm not exactly up to any of your standards..." Michele shoved her fist against her mouth in an aborted attempt to cram the words back in. 

"Hey!" The bark in Dean’s voice made her flinch. "First off, Hobbits kick ass, second you may be Sammy's little pen pal but I don't hate you okay? I get that you’re not Becky." 

"Okay... yeah umm thanks for that, I'm definitely not Becky ... _Oh-h — Becky's real._.." Michele made a choking sound at the back of her throat, thinking about the implications of that. 

Dean grunted. "Sam was married to that pint sized shot of crazy — _briefly_." He informed her sourly. 

"Poor Sam... on the plus side... the little pervert survived marriage to a Winchester... that's progress isn't it? Mean's you aren't _really_ cursed." 

Dean laughed. "Maybe Mitch." 

Michele winced, she hated that nickname, but she'd live with it. 

"So, Dean if you're really ok and Sam... _Sam is ok isn't he?_ " She demanded, suddenly suspicious.

"Sam's fine" 

"And the witch isn't a mirror pincushion?"

"Rowena’s fine."

"Then umm… can I go now? We have homework to do and my hellions may be gorging themselves on biscuits as we speak. I am really am glad you're okay Dean, I was… worried, you know. I may see stuff but it's not the stuff I want to know. Tell Sam I say hi. Look after each other okay?" 

"An’ you look after those kids Mitch... and yourself." 


	39. Love you, but don’t like you right now

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 39: Love you, but don’t like you right now**

Michele stood up from shampooing her youngest son’s hair and caught herself against the bathroom wall.

Turning, she examined herself in the bathroom mirror noting the dark circles under her eyes, and the pallor of her face and lips. Pulled down her lower eye lid and studied the lack of colour there with a sinking dread.

She was getting anemic, taking iron pills and multi vitamins, eating right... None of those things were keeping up with the incremental blood losses.

She felt it in the exhaustion she carried all day, the moments of dizziness, and how she found it harder to get enough oxygen when she was chasing after her children.

What was she? It was a question she couldn't fully push to the back of her mind. She'd said she didn't care and didn't want to know... But the question was, did she _need_ to know.  
A small voice asked if maybe, the reason why prophets were taken off into the desert by the angels had to do with a need for constant angelic healing, (or transfusions.) Did unaccompanied prophets eventually die from blood loss.

Sam’d had head aches and nose bleeds as part of his special child thing, but was that from the visions or the mental exorcisms? ... she couldn't remember.

Now, she felt like a voyeur every time she even looked at the books, (thanks Dean) but she got it, really she did...  
Which was the worse option? reading the books or asking one of the Winchester boys questions about prophets and special children? Poking at that topic with Sam seemed … insensitive.  
She guessed she could ask Dean now, but was it any less insensitive to ask him than his brother? The whole demon blood thing had caused so much hurt between the brothers. Dredging it up was something she was loathe to do.

She'd been uncertain what the Skype friend request from impalaboy67 heralded after that civil conversation between her and Dean after the memory curse thing.

A file of warding sigils and a terse one sided announcement a few days ago that they were off to show another hunter the ropes, on 'an easy case,’ what ever that meant. 

It was a tiny bit amusing, Sam told her next to nothing about their work but they typed backwards and forwards semi-regularly. Dean on the other hand had spoken to her twice, but had to do it verbally (not that he had given her a chance to say much of anything in return, that second time,) she found the guy impossible to fathom. He made her feel ordered around and barked at.  
Did he know how uncomfortable communicating with him verbally made her? Was it some sort of alpha dog territorial thing over Sam? All questions, which she doubted she’d ever get answers to. 

Rinsing off her son and wrapping him in a towel she stepped round the cat where she stood sentry on her human partner in crime - well out of the way of any nasty water.

  
A thought quirked her mouth sideways into a smile. Maybe that was the problem, why she didn’t get Dean, he was just like a dog, a Rottweiler or something, and she was more like a cat.

….

The baby was in bed and Michele was in the midst of rolling chocolate chip cookie dough into balls for baking when she received a Skype call from Deans account.  
Wiping one hand she accepted the call, thinking that today she was glad not to have to type.

She never even got a chance to say hello before Dean laid into her, yelling.  
For maybe five seconds she thought he was yelling at her about “The Thing You Hate,” that he'd read it, and was thoughly and justifiably pissed at her over it.

Then, between his paint scorching swearing she registered the name “Cas.”  
Her mind hauled back over his actual words and realised Dean wasn’t angry about her story. 

“....Why the fuck didn't you give us a heads up that the sonofabitch we were dealing with was a fucking Prince of Hell, Huh?  
You don't give a damn about Cas, cos he's just an angel, is that it?”

“ _Dean_ ,” his name came out as a strangled whisper. He obviously didn't hear.

“Did you get your rocks off watchin’ Wally die, watchin’ Cas's guts rot? Sam thinks you're _sooo_ nice and innocent, but I've got your number, bitch. Your loyalties lie with the yellow eyed freaks that gave you your freaky powers, don’t they? _Admit it!”_

“Dean!” She tried again, louder.

“Cas is worth a million of you! If you weren't so far away I'd put a bullet between your eyes. Don’t think I’m gonna let you lead Sammy down the garden path, I’ll find a way to end you, long before that.”

Michele flinched at the threat and the vitrol in his voice.

“Dean stop! I... I’m guessing you're hurting, but please stop yelling at me, and tell me _what happened._ I didn't see anything.  
Honestly.  
Are you and Sam okay?”

“Don't act like you give a damn, lying bitch!”

Michele was used to keeping her cool with toddler tantrums, overwrought autism and neurotic teenagers, but Dean was not a child and she was not his punching bag.

“Nooo!” She gave way to the anger that flared up, over the unfairness of his accusations.  
“When I had a chance to end this nightmare by letting you die, I chose to _save you bloody Winchesters._ Because _obviously_ I don't give a damn.

 _So, now I get to keep slowly bleeding to death,_ you don't have to waste any bullets, _yay for you!_  
I’ve started wondering if my kids might end up growing up without a mother. _But hey!_ Maybe you can give them a few pointers on that.” She snarled. “ _Not that you care,_ because just like everyone else you use. I'm just a means to an end, a ruddy magic 8 ball, aren’t I Dean? Shake me until you get the answer you want…

I'll let you in on a secret Dean Winchester.  
I don't see everything.  
I don't know what happened.  
And if you want to blame someone for whatever the heck happened, look elsewhere.  
_I am sorry though, if someone died_ and _I hope to God, Cas is going to be alright._

I know you're upset, but that's no excuse to take it out on me!

Now _please,_ either stop yelling at me and _talk to me_ or go have some time out! Because I may love you Dean Winchester, but right now I don't like you very much.”

It was exactly what she would have said to one of her kids.

Dean logged out; and left her simmering with anger, frustration and worry.


	40. Unknown voices

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 40: Unknown Voices**

  
Sam pulled Cas's truck into the garage behind the impala.  
Despite Cas's protest that he was perfectly okay to drive, Dean had decided Cas shouldn’t be allowed to drive his truck back to the bunker.

Dean Winchester, as always, was the king of double standards.  
Both Cas and Sam knew better than to argue, especially with Dean simmering in barely controlled anger.

Chuck forbid Dean process or talk about how he was actually feeling over Cas's near death experience, or that Crowley, of all people has been the one who saved their best friend.  
Instead Dean would repress it, drown it in whiskey, and generally be a prize winning jerk.

There was a tiny sliver of possibility Dean might crack, that he might talk it out, but not with his brother there as an audience. Sam had felt the tiniest bit guilty for leaving Cas alone in the impala with his brother and... all of that... but mostly he felt relieved.

Mary had taken Wally’s body home to his wife, a job that both Winchester brothers were secretly glad to avoid.  
Even though Mary had pointed out Wally was her friend, and she knew his wife, Sam still felt the guilt tearing at him, for leaving the task to their mother.  
Wally had been a good man, he had a wife, and had been completely unprepared to face the mess of demons they'd walked into.  
Wally hadn't known what hit him.  
Why hadn't they been more cautious, researched more... warned or protected him?  
Of all the things he should have done... All he, Sam Winchester, had done ...was watch as Wally died. It was just another tally on his list of failures.

....

Dean and Cas were already out of the impala when Sam pulled in. The set of Dean’s shoulders told Sam a lot. He’d spent his whole life watching his older brother’s every motion.  
The way Dean moved told him his brother hadn’t cracked or talked to Cas, if anything Dean looked more like a nuclear bomb looking for somewhere to implode.

He stalked around to the Impala’s trunk, with Cas trailing behind, somehow looking apologetic.

  
Opened the trunk and wrenched out the Michael lance.

"I said No Cas!  
You are not examining the frickin’ 'artifact'! You are not touching the frickin’ thing! ... and as soon as I can, I'm gonna melt this sonofabitch to slag, so none of us even have to look at it again. Got that?!  
It is not "a potentially useful artifact, if it can be repaired.” No one is gonna fix it, capiche?! This ...thing is evil,’ just like the sick asshole that made it."

With that Dean turned on his heel, his strides were an angry death march out of the garage.  
Sam and Cas followed him at a slower pace, not speaking..

Dean stormed to his room and slammed the door.  
There was a sound like something (the Michael lance) being hurled across the room and hitting the wall, then clattering to the floor.

Sam flinched. Cas looked at Sam as they passed Dean’s door with it’s men of letters symbol and the number 11 on it.

The angel wavered, "I simply suggested..." he began.

"I know man." Sam commiserated and patted Castiel’s shoulder, gripped it and drew him passed the door.  
"Dean’s.... Dean, and that was... too ... close. He mightn’t say it, but, uh ... he was scared. We both were. ..." Sam cleared his throat around the emotion and clapped Cas on his back.

"I admit, I also… experienced a heightened level of fear." Cas's mouth pulled to one side uncomfortably. He tilted his head looking thoughtful. "Ramiel said it was a long time since he had last seen an angel," he mused, "there was a rumour in the ranks, many years ago... that an elite angelic force captured Ramiel, Prince of Hell -briefly- I was not inclined to believe it, though many strong warriors did die.  
A prince of Hell is not to be trifled with.  
That any of us survived the altercation today. Was a miracle, Sam... nearly as great as the miracle of Crowley deciding to assist us. To … assist Me." Cas corrected himself looking bemused.

"I'm sure Crowley had an angle Cas, he always does." Sam comforted his friend.

......

Yelling came from Dean’s room behind them a moment later.  
Sam exchanged a worried glance with Castiel and they both turned, hurrying back down the hallway towards Dean’s door, in alarm.

"Did the bunkers warding fail?" Sam asked, perplexed.

"The warding is intact... there is no one, nothing, in the room with Dean." Castiel answered as they hesitated outside, uncertain.

…ooo0ooo…

Michele felt the angry tears burn at her eyes and overflow.  
She dashed them away with the back of her hand.  
Her heart was pounding and an emotional hangover threatened.  
Damn, being a woman sucked! Why did angry always have to equal stupid tears?!

She looked down at the tray of cookies, roughly rolled the last few balls of dough and squashed them hard with a fork before shoving the filled tray into the oven.  
The echos of Dean’s angry words and her own seethed inside her skull.  
Feeling militant, she set a timer.

The vision caught her off balance when it came, she stumbled and knocked her head against the oven on the way down.

***

Michele found herself in a dark room, behind her was a presence she couldn't turn to examine.  
In front of her was a metal lattice of bars, behind which, a dark figure sat at ease against the wall, shilhoetted but not revealed by some high up unreachable light source.

The man appeared to be a prisoner, locked away in the dark cage, yet he didn't seem to be overly unhappy, in fact he was singing.

"Oh, there was a gun that won the west, there was a man a-mong the best.  
The fastest gun or man a-live.  
A lightning bolt when he shot that Colt.  
Bang!  
Foorrrty-five"

The man sniggered, amused.

"I suppose you think that’s funny." A voice another voice from behind Michele grated, sounding more miserable than the man in the cell.

The shadowed man laughed in amusement again, mocking.  
"Ahh... I know that look.  
Sam and Dean got you down."

Michele blinked confused, could the man see her?! Did he know? Was this a vision or just her imagination...

"Well - I still can’t believe that you’re working for the Dukes of Haphazard.  
Do you really think they care about you?" The sharp amused voice questioned, relentless in its demands.  
"I mean... think about it.....  
They kill your kind. It’s in their blood. And you know... you know... it’s only a matter of time before they come.. for y-ou." The sing song voice sliced her to the bone.

***

Michele sat up from the floor by the oven holding her tender head and tried to tell herself she'd just slipped and rattled her brain a bit, that what she’d just experienced wasn't a vision. Just a moment where Dean’s angry words and her own fears had combined.

The weight of everything that was happening to her suddenly seemed so big and awful, and she felt completely alone, like she was starting to drown.

Giving in to despair, she curled herself up on the kitchen floor, and let herself sob, while she asked herself again and again how her escape from the real world had turned into this? A weight around her neck, which felt like it was dragging her down to drown.

…ooo0ooo…

  
The yelling continued for a short while, then stopped, Sam and Castiel exchanged another look.

Then Dean’s door slammed open and he stormed out.

"I need a drink." Dean informed them both darkly, pulling on his jacket again and heading back to the garage.

"Dean... What? Did .... Mom call?" Sam followed after his brother and Cas followed after him.

"That," Dean snarled and gestured back at his room, "that was definitely not our Mom."

"Wait up Dean, we'll come with…." Sam offered, hands splayed in entreaty.

Dean sighed and suddenly looked defeated rather than angry.  
"Don't tell me you're not tired Sam. Stay put okay?  
Just, just go read your emails or somethin’. Keep chasing Kelly Kline. I just need ... a drink. Make that drinks, plural."

"Dean..." Cas attempted.

Dean favoured their friend with a weary smile.

"Don't go dyin’ while I'm gone, Cas. We need you." He clapped their friend on the shoulder and left.

Sam and Cas shared another confused look.

"Well that was..." Sam began.

"...unexpected." Cas finished with an almost human shrug.


	41. Something The Cat Dragged In

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 41: Something the Cat Dragged in**

Dean walked into the library carrying two bottles of beer and smelling of car polish. He'd been up in the garage since Cas left earlier that morning, 'having quality time with his number one girl.'

"Sam, you talk to your pen pal recently?"

Sam leaned back in his chair, took a swig from his bottle and examined Dean’s back, as he stood turned away, examining the bookshelves with great interest.  
Dean’s inquiry was just a bit too casual.   
Sam smiled to himself.

"Not since the day we got back, she didn't say much, just asked how we all were... guess she's busy."

"Yeah, guess," Dean hummed.

"You want me to tell her you're missing the emails, Dean?" He teased slyly.  
Dean snorted and shot him a dark look, but didn't say anything for a while.

"You think we got any medical books in this lot?"

"Thought you were over your ‘Doctor Sexy MD,’ fetish, after the stuff with Gabriel in Wellington, Ohio Dean."

"Getting shot in the back, wasn't exactly a high point, yeah."

"Speaking of Michele… get this, Wellington’s also the name of New Zealand’s capital city." Sam informed taking another mouthful of beer, useless information mode fully engaged.

"Why you interested in medical books, anyway, Dean? They aren't exactly light reading. Surely you're not that bored."

"I'm allowed to be interested in stuff Sam, was just wonderin’ how much blood a person had. The net’s kinda useless." He grumbled.

"Well Dean, it depends… on the size of the person, their age, weight, sex... The bigger the person the more blood..."

"Fan-fricking-tactic, Thank you soo much Chuck!" Dean flared and slammed the book he’d been looking at down on the table in irritation, then walked out of the library.

"Dean.... why... what ...?" Sam frowned at his brother's retreating back and chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully.

…ooo0ooo…

Michele sat on her bed with her toddler asleep against her legs, she had a clipboard on her lap and a pile of Supernatural books by her side, been trying to research special children and prophets.  
But one of her favourite fickids, Cat was distracting her by sending her links to stuff she was digging up on line.

The latest was a photo of three cats recognisably dressed as Sam Dean and Cas, with the caption above it's head saying, "Son of a dog. I'm allergic to myself Sammy!"

Katarina, 1:09PM

  
**1:10PM  
Cat where the heck do you find these things!**

Michele typed sniggering.

Katarina, 1:11PM

A place called the internet M.

**1:12PM**

****

**Yeah Yeah.... some of us don't live there Cat, some of us just visit!**

Katarina, 1:12PM  
Hey M, remember the video I sent you from YouTube a while ago? The one with the Taylor Swift song, "Because of you," and the fanart and book quotes about John and Dean?

**1:13PM  
How could I forget? I bawled my eyes out over that one!**

  
... _and that was before I knew they were real people._ Michele thought grimly, then remembered her recent experience with Dean, and felt torn.

Dean Winchester had been a prick to her, he’d been totally in the wrong... and she knew she had been within her rights to snap back at him.

But she _felt guilty._

  
Michele sighed, she was in a bind. If she was going to work this thing out and survive it, if she had any chance of being helpful to the Winchesters. She needed Dean to respect her. That wasn't likely to happen if she let him walk all over her, or if she made nice and apologised when she wasn't in the wrong...

But oh! Dean Winchester from the books would be feeling guilty (because if Carver Edlund’s books showed anything, it was that the man could do guilt to an Olympic standard and win a gold medal... when things weren't his fault.) But he was also stubborn as hell, but emotionally fragile, and appeared to have an impenetrable armour of snark, bluster, humour and indifference, he seemed nearly pathologically incapable of talking about things.

Michele had had a bit of experience wrangling a man like that, she was married to one. But doing it from the other side of the world? With only words (not exactly first tool of choice.) She shook her head in frustration, and looked back at the screen to Cat’s words.

Katarina, 1:15PM  
As did I friend. I have found another one! It is called "Thank you." It is a compilation of book quotes where people thank the Winchester brothers for their help, with a song and fan art mixed in."

**1:16PM  
Fanart?**

Michele typed dubiously.

Katarina, 1:17PM  
Pictures. For example, for Bobby there is a picture of a wheelchair, with a bottle of Scotch and a baseball cap lying on it.

Katarina, 1:17PM  
I know you do not like a lot of the fan art. But this fan art is really beautiful. It made me tear up with it’s perfection M.

  
In that moment, Michele was overwhelmed with a bittersweet love for her young Slovenian friend, Cat. Even though Cat knew nothing about the struggles Michele found herself facing.  
Cat ... and Peaches and Cougar... The smartest kid, and a bunch of random commenters.

Sometimes those people that understood ... but _didn't know._ Those people, were _her_ light in the dark.  
With just words from where ever they were, out there in the boundless realm of cyber space, _they helped._

_Because of course, what she needed right now, was to cry over Winchesters._

And yet _maybe it was._

Dean wasn't a puzzle to solve, or a pet to train, he wasn't the cause of what was happening to her either. He wasn't a bronze statue or a fairy-tale prince. He was a flawed damaged person, trying to do his best.

Michele clicked on the YouTube link.

And yes, she cried.

….

A thoughtful while later, Michele started typing.  
Dean Winchester wasn't someone who would ever respond to psychobabble crap. But honesty? Yeah, he might respond to, and respect that.

  
…ooo0ooo…

Half an hour after he left, Dean came back into the library carrying lunch.

"Sam, you’ve gotta have a talk with your hobbit about her nose bleeds, hack her medical records or somethin’." Dean announced in a rush, setting the food down.

Sam sat for a moment staring at the plate in front of him, his brow furrowed, then pushing food and research aside, he looked up directly into his brother's eyes.

"Why do I feel like there's something I'm not getting here Dean?"

"I mighta talked to her a couple of times..." Dean muttered looking away.

Sam frowned at his brother "Yeah ... so?"

Dean didn't answer for a long time.

"When?" Sam asked curious.

"After the Momento crap."

Sam raised an eyebrow at that.

"She saved our asses .... _I think_.... Skyped an' convinced Rowena to do stuff .... said if she didn't, we would've all died ...."

"So.... Rowena knows about her .....?" Sam asked, worried.

Dean’s mouth quirked, "Nah Rowena thinks "HobbitualPsychik's" our Mom ... Your fault Sammy, you let me think that email .... was from Mom?... _not cool!!_ "

Sam huffed. "That doesn't explain why you want me to _invade her privacy_ by hacking her medical records, Dean."

Deans face got the look that said, ' _I've done something and I feel guilty, but I'm not apologizing and you can't make me.'_

"I may've talked to her a couple more times ...  
Before the whole Ramiel thing. Gave her a heads up we were goin’ out on a case.  
... and uh… when we got back..." Dean suddenly became very interested in his fingernails.

Now it made sense.

"By talked.... you mean you yelled at her.... _don't you Dean? Why?"_

"Thought she saw it, an’ didn't warn us ....cos it was Cas."

"Dean... that's....  
The vision stuff ... she probably didn't _see_ anything ... _it doesn't..._ " Sam let out a huff of exsasperation. "That still doesn't explain your interest in her medical records, or...."

"She, she said that ‘cause she chose to save us .... I wouldn't need a bullet for her... ‘cause she'll end up bleedin' to death anyway."

"Dean?!! _What the hell?!! .... Did you, threaten to **shoot** her... ?!_"

"Shit Sam, _I know_!   
I screwed up okay! It's my fault, I lost it.... Just check on her.... _Please_." Dean hunched lower in his seat.

"She told me to have timeout." He muttered miserably, "that she loved me, but didn't like me very much... _Who_ _even says that Sam?"_ Pale green eyes dragged themselves up to meet Sam's in entreaty.

Sam chuckled, amused despite himself.  
"Uh... Moms say that, Dean."


	42. The Nosebleed Section

**The Thing You Hate**

  
**Chapter 42: The Nosebleed Section**

"So, get this, people _can_ die from nosebleeds." Sam looked up at his brother from a stack of browser searches.   
"Though this one... Robert Ford, 47, of Gravesend, Kent... a British guy, that one, sounds like a witch thing."

Dean looked over the article and nodded, "Yeah gotta be... Gravesend? Well that's ironic ... " he pursed his lips. “Guess the British men of letters ain't god’s gift after all ... they oughta worry 'bout cleanin up their own back yard insteada sending their psycho bitch our way."

Sam's face creased in response, but returned his eyes to the screen. "Most of them seem to be guys in their 40s, old people, or women after an assault. This guy Julian Hunter, 44, of Finchley, died after one - two-hour nosebleed.  
So, it's possible..." Sam huffed frustrated, "it's not like there's a large pool of data on prophets and special kids, Dean.  
Kevin .... looked pretty rough for a long time.... and we just left him to it mostly. Garth probably knows a bit ... I - I just don't know." He swallowed and broke off looking down at his hands I’m guilty misery."

"Don't Sammy! That one was on me."

"Me, you, Gadreel, Metatron ... they were my hands Dean… " Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Kevin's still dead. We didn't protect him, we were so busy ...saving the world ... we just used him, now he's dead.”

"From what I can tell New Zealand's pretty much a supernatural vacuum, there's isn’t even any decent tribal monster lore, ‘cept for some sorta giant ocean or river monster called a _taniwha_ which no one blames for anything, incidentally. It’s that lame. Who knows, maybe it’s one monster that _don’t exist_ ...or maybe they all ran off to save the whales or somethin’. New Zealander’s seem to be big into that shit.”

"You researched New Zealand monster lore?"

Dean shrugged. "If you brought home a dog I'd make sure it got it’s shots and buy it kibble." 

"Would you also kick it and threaten to shoot it, if you came home pissy from a hunt, Dean?" He asked in a tightly, level voice and eyes on the screen.

"Not cool man," Dean’s jaw clenched as he looked away.

"No, it wasn't Dean!"

Dean pushed back out of his chair and stood up, "what do you want me to say Sam?"

"How about, that _you're sorry?_ " His brother opened his mouth "-- No Dean! To _her,_ not me... _but we both know you aren't capable of that!_ " He spat and strode out of the room. A minute later the bunker door slammed shut.

Dean walked over to the whiskey decanter, picked it up and sent himself to his room.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam sat against a tree on the incline above the bunker, phone in hand for nearly an hour, fuming. Why did Dean always have to mess with his stuff? Why couldn’t he have a friend without Dean causing issues?! Why couldn’t Dean just grow the hell up!

Finally, he calmed down and opened Skype.

....

 **3:04PM**  
**Michele? Can we talk.**

Though he could see she was active, Michele didn’t answer for an unusually long time.

  
HobbitualPsychick, 3:08PM  
Sam I'm a little busy right now.

 **3:09PM**  
**Michele, I talked to Dean. I’m sorry. Please, can’t we talk.**

HobbitualPsychick, 3:11PM  
Yes, that makes sense.  
Sam the reason I'm busy is because I'm 'talking' talking to your brother.

 **3:11PM**  
**Oh**

HobbitualPsychick, 3:14PM  
You aren’t responsible for stuff that happens between me and Dean, Sam. I am an adult ok? I don’t blame my friends for their family members temper tantrums. Honestly!

  
**3:15PM**  
**Good to know, but I’d still like to talk about something**

HobbitualPsychick, 3:16PM  
Later, ok? I just find juggling two conversations on this ... way beyond my skills.  
Go hack my medical records or something, if you haven't already. That’s what's worrying you, isn't it? I’m getting a transfusion Monday.... or tomorrow depending on my CBC results, so if you are going to hack the system, maybe you can let me know my latest results.

 **3:17PM**  
**!??**

HobbitualPsychick, 3:19PM  
Interesting fact, I do read my own fic Sam, are you going to deny you've already hacked them once? I sorta know lots about your life, my friend. Anyway I figure… turn about is fair play.  
—It really is fine. I don’t have any secrets that are worth throwing my toys out of the pram over. We'll catch-up in a bit okay?

...ooo0ooo...

\- - - - - -

Hi Dean, 

A quick email to get some stuff straight.

The whole yelling match a few days ago, not cool.

On either side.

I can't make you believe this, but, if I see stuff _I will_ try and tell you and Sam. I couldn't live with myself if I let someone die. Angel or human.

Castiel especially, he’s the one decent angel and actually seems to be doing what God wants.

I’m a Christian, which in my books means Castiel and I kinda work for the same Boss… even if he's not in the office right now...  
I get where you thought you were coming from though. I do!  
And I'm going to guess that possibly .... by now, you can see where I'm coming from. ???!!! 

_Hopefully_.

  
Please, let's not do the whole yelling without bothering to talk thing... Or the whole death threats thing. I’m not used to people expressing wishes to murder me, not the way you are. Guess it comes from my sheltered suburban life.

  
Righty, so, over with?

  
Don't make me dress up in a sparkly blue Elsa dress and sing that awful, "Let it go," Disney Frozen song... and don't make your brother do it either... Please.

  
I believe in you Dean Winchester. A lot of people do, even though there's a portion of them that don't know you're real.

  
Now, can I ask you to sit quietly and watch the attached YouTube link? In exchange, we will never speak of this again.

-M

\- - - - - -

She attached the link to Cat’s "Thankyou" clip. Had literally just pressed send on the email when she received a Skype call from Dean’s account.

When she accepted the call, there was a few moments of silence punctuated by the sound of harsh breathing.

"Mitch?" Dean spoke finally.

"Yeah, Dean, I'm here,” she answered.

"I - uh—“

"Yeah, me too."

"I shouldn'ta.."

"You don't need to Dean... okay? I get it. I actually sent you an email, like naught point five seconds ago... I _would_ like to know what happened with Cas though."

"I needta know ‘bout your nosebleeds ... How bad is it?"

Michele took a deep breath. "The nosebleeds are _not your fault Dean_. Whatever they are, you aren’t causing them, any more than you cause cancer or global warming," she said wearily. "I was just snarling back at you, because what you said was mean and unfair… What you said… it really ... It hurt ok? ...And you're not the only one with a temper when pushed too far."

"So...?" Dean prompted.

"So ...left untreated... my body's not keeping up with the nosebleeds from the visions, or not obeying…" her voice wavered slightly, "the compulsion to write. Maybe if I was a guy... but ummm girls..." she cleared her throat uncomfortably. "Anyway, lots of tests... upshot, no useful answers. But there's lots of things _I don't have...._  
So...they’re gonna try giving me a transfusion, tomorrow or Monday, depending on the latest set of results. I'm waiting on that, excited as a kid before Christmas, I might add.   
Honestly, it’s …not great, but you're stuck with me for a while yet."

"Crap, Mitch!"

"Think of it as an oil change, I am. _It is_ a good thing I'm a Christian, not a Jehovah's Witness though, huh? But as is, my religion just makes me a bit judgey, not stupidly adverse to medical treatment. Now, can you tell me what happened with Castiel?"

So, Dean told her, his voice weirdly blank of emotion. Like a solider reporting on a mission. She didn't interrupt, just let him talk himself out. Wondered all the while how much of his childhood had been spent reporting like that, to his father.  
Bit her lip and stroked her hand through her own son’s hair, while he slept on, safe and warm against her legs.

"I can’t imagine how awful and frightening it must have been watching Cas dying like that.” She said finally. “You might not have known Wally well but .... a good bloke dying, that's never going to be ok." Her voice was husky with emotion.

"Yeah... Wasn't good." Dean cleared his throat.

"But Cas _is_ okay, _so is Sam… And your Mom._ And you!.... And you know a bit more than you did, _right? And there’s one less bad thing out there..._ "

"And you're getting an oil change tomorrow or Monday, so everything's jellybeans and cheese strings." Dean scoffed sarcastically.

"And pie." Michele added brightly, hoping to get him to crack a smile.

"Yeah… can’t forget the pie. So, we're good, Little Miss Sunshine?"

"Oi,” She teased lightly, “that's Little _Mrs_ Sunshine to you.”

  
Then her son thrashed an arm in his sleep and startled himself awake, began mewling in his best overwrought fashion.

She covered the phone’s speaker to muffle the sound.

“Ugh sorry! Breaks over, back to the salt mines for me, Dean. Mr Christopher is now _awake_!

There'll be an email in your inbox." She told him as she cuddled and shushed her son.

"More hedgehogs?"

"Nah something the human fic Cat dragged in."

"Yeah okay, I'magonna let you go! Seriously?! I've dealt with fuglies that sounded less pissed than that kid. What did you do to it?”

Michele laughed and cut the call. Carrying her son out to find him some food.


	43. YouTube

**The Thing You Hate**

  
**Chapter 43: YouTube**

Sam was waiting for his brother to come out of his room. Not _exactly_ eavesdropping, but he had definitely been monitoring the modulation of Dean’s tone, more than a bit curious about what was being said.

Then, for ten minutes there was silence.

When Dean finally emerged, carrying the almost full whiskey decanter in one hand. His face was pale and he was walking in a slightly halting, careful manner

.

"Sam." He greeted, frowning in a preoccupied way as he set the decanter back where it belonged.

"Dean?!"

"Sammy never get on the bad side of your hobbit..." Dean advised, his eyes were red-rimmed and shadowed, he scrubbed a hand through his short hair distractedly, "she has YouTube clips and she ain't afraid to use them."

"YouTube? Dean... what?" Sam began, mildly alarmed by his brother's odd behaviour and words.

Dean held up a hand. “We will never speak of it,” he intoned with a bemused look, then shook his head giving Sam a shaky grin.

"You apologized?" Sam asked.

"She wouldn't let me, but we're good."

"Okay... ?"

"Know where the leather cleaner is?" Dean snorted, "there’s angel blood on the seat."

"Uh... on the shelf, in the garage, — where it _always_ is."

"Yeah... sure." Dean wandered off and was gone for over an hour.

…ooo0ooo…

  
"So…" Dean glanced at his watch again and pulled a face. "Your hobbit oughta be back from the hospital by now, right?"

Sam raised his eyebrows. Glanced at the laptop clock and did time zone maths in his head, "probably Dean ..."

"So, you should call an' check on her."

Sam rolled his eyes, briefly considered finding out what Dean would say if he refused. But opened Skype.

"No - call her! Don't do the typing thing." Dean demanded.

Sam huffed in irritation. "Am I checking on her ...or are you?"

"She's your pet Sam." Dean muttered, then leaned over his shoulder and clicked the buttons.

"Hi Sam?" a lyrical, lilting voice answered the call, "and hell-o Dean, how's my favourite American boys today?" she added.

"How'd ya know?" Dean challenged.

"Because your brother isn't pushy like you Dean Winchester, we've never talked, talked."

"Really Sammy?" Dean nudged at him. "So this is the first time you've heard her accent? Isn't she just the cutest little peppy thing, sorta classy and exotic too though. Kiwi accents man, there was this kiwi bartender in New Orleans ... Somethin’ about her voice just ... ooof." Sam elbowed his brother in the stomach with a warning glare, Dean’s returning laugh was all whiskey and sin.

Sam heard Michele take a flustered little breath in.  
Opened his mouth to chastise Dean, though internally he had to admit, from the little he’d heard, Dean’s description wasn't entirely wrong.

Then, Michele laughed. "And here I thought you just couldn't keep up typing. Don't sass me about my accent please, Dean. Or else there might be MEMs with kittens ... or worse ... I'll go onto FanFiction and find one of those awful Destiel fics, and start reading it to you. It would probably psychologically scar both of us ... but I'll still be able to look at my best friend with a straight face after."

The look on Dean’s face was priceless.

"You wouldn't!”

"No I wouldn't," she agreed, "cos Sam’s here, and he doesn't deserve to suffer." Their was a lot of warmth and good-natured humor in her voice, something about how she spoke which brought to mind stories with magic and knights, stories for simpler times.

"Michele. You do have a nice voice, you, uh, you kind of sound like .... you belong in a story book, or something—" Sam admitted, and felt his cheeks heat.

"That's... that's, really sweet Sam." Michele answered warmly, but cautiously. Then, she giggled, "especially coming from a guy who _is_ a book character."

Dean shot him a sideways look and what could only be described as a pout.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Sam grinned, "Well, _Dean_ wanted to check on you."

There were a few beats of silence. "Well of course he did," she sounded introspective now, "because despite your sass and bark you're a sweetheart, Dean Winchester."

Dean crossed his arms and looked away. “So, you're good, after your oil change Mitch?" he asked.

"I'm good. I was actually just about to bake some cupcakes. I'd offer to let you boys lick the bowl ... but ... you're a bit far away."

"Uh ... Shouldn't you be ... resting?" Sam asked, making cupcakes didn’t sound like something someone who’d been pumped full of someone else’s blood ought to be doing.

"I'm _fine_ Sam, I was just running a couple of quarts low, that's all fixed now, how many transfusions have you boys had over the years? I mean seriously! I don't even have any gaping holes as an excuse.  
Besides, Mr 8’s got a shared lunch at school tomorrow, he’s requested vanilla cupcakes with blue icing ... so, vanilla cupcakes with blue icing he shall have!"

Her words hit him strangely. Reminded him achingly of a lifetime ago, the day after he and Jess had moved into their own place, he’d found her in their little kitchenette, wearing a frilly apron, with a mess of ingredients and a recipe book in front of her. Jess had turned to him with her hands on her hips, gold hair spilling down her back in the morning sunlight and demanded he tell her which flavor of cookies to bake. Being given that choice, had seemed like a huge thing, and Jess had just laughed at his indecision. As if someone baking cookies for you was _normal._

“Oh? Uhm, we’ll leave you to it then, I guess.” He muttered feeling like an interloper in her life again.

…ooo0ooo…

  
Dean bounded up the steps into the library while talking on the phone.

"Okay, well, stay on it.  
You get any leads, you let us know, and we'll keep working it from our end. Thanks, Cas." Dean leaned against the heavy wooden table and took a breath.  
Sam kept his eyes on the webpage he'd been reading.

"So, Kelly Kline is in the wind. No trace."

"Great." Sam rolled his eyes with a huff.

"No idea when Lucifer's kid is gonna pop, if it hasn't already." Dean continued his recap.

"So,” Sam rubbed the back of his neck, "basically, we got nothin'."

"Basically." Dean agreed dryly.

"All right. Well, we do have this other thing." Which made his brother look up from his phone.

"What, other thing?"

"Check it out.  
Museum in Des Moines, Iowa. A guy's body was found in the parking lot. A teacher. His tongue had been ripped out."

"Well, that didn't kill him." Dean frowned and leaned over his brother's shoulder to read the Des Moines Herald webpage.

"No… but having his internal organs crushed, did. Uh, no obvious damage to the torso, no point of entry..."

"You thinkin' witch?"

"Maybe. I mean, he was seen alive just a couple hours earlier, leading a student tour of the museum."

"Hmm.  
Haven't seen Mom in a while. Maybe she'll wanna work with us on this." Dean looked thoughtful.

"Okay well, you give Mom a call, I'll keep digging around."

"Gonna tell Mitch?" Dean asked turning back to his brother.

"I dunno man, how much should we be telling her...?" Sam rocked back in his chair and took a deep breath.

"She's tougher than you give her credit for Sammy, 'sides at least if you tell her we're headin’ out she won't be blindsided."

"Can't we just, uh, leave her be? She has a lot on her plate already, Dean."

"Maybe, if we tell her whats happening she won't need the visions to write the fricking Winchester gospels. No visions, no bleeding. No bleeding is a good thing, right?" Dean argued a lopsided smile on his face.

"Uh, I doubt it works like that."

"Yeah well... she's your pet, it's your call." Dean muttered with a shrug, turned away, scrolling through his contacts to call Mom.

…ooo0ooo…

There was always something comforting about being back on the road, riding through the night, no matter what the weather. For all the comfort there was in having the bunker as a home base, the rumble of the impala, the tunnel through the darkness and rain manifested by impalas unwavering headlights and the scent of well cared for leather. Those things were like breathing free air.

Sam glanced up at his brother from the tablet in his hands.

"Get this. It looks like there was another murder. It's just like the one we're checking up on."

"Iowa?" Dean questioned.

"No, Andover, Massachusetts. Six months ago. A woman. Body was found in the same condition. Looks like she was a teacher, too."

"Hmm." Dean studied the road digesting the info.

"Too bad Mom couldn't make it." Sam murmured looking down again. "You said she was too... tired?" He questioned and glanced across at Dean’s face in the passing light of an oncoming car.

"Yeah." Dean scoffed with a little agro shake of his head.

"What?"

"I don't know, I just -- I feel like something's goin on with her, and she ain't talkin' about it."

"Mom's hunting again. That's a grind. You know that." Sam argued earnestly, brow furrowed, studied his brother's closed face. "She just needs a little time, Dean. That's all."

"Yeah." Dean trained his eyes on the road his jaw set.

With a sigh, Sam looked away wondering what exactly was going on in his brother's head.

…ooo0ooo…

  
Michele sipped her cappuccino and stared over the rim of her cup at her friend seated opposite.

"So yeah," she shot her friend a skewed smile, "lately I've practically been living at the hospital, what with the boy’s issues and now these ruddy nose bleeds."

Her friend gave her a sympathetic smile from across her own coffee cup. "Yes, it's sometimes hard to see Gods plan in the midst of things, isn't it?" Her friend mused.

"Yeah Karen it is. But enough about me, how many girls are you guys wrangling at the moment?"

Her friend and her husband had left their jobs as youth pastors to run a home for at risk teen aged girls, who had nowhere else to go. They called it Lighthouse girls home and it really was a place well named.

"Four, we got another girl last week through the courts, referred by child youth and family, she's just so ... fragile and angry. I spend so much time at the moment, praying and begging God to show me how to help her," Karen’s blue eyes held pain and frustration.

"I don't know how you do it, really I don't. Taking on these broken teens, trying to fix and build up these kids... loving them, being God’s hands and voice. Heck I've raised my girls practically all their lives, they're mostly great kids but they're teenaged girls and oh! they are HARD work some days... not to mention the added bonus of the neurotic birth mother ... but my girls are the product of my child raising. At the end of the day they know I love them and I know how they work….  
You get these kids at the worst possible life stage and you pick up the pieces, you love them and heal them and teach them a better way, Gods way. For some of these kids, you guys are their first taste of Real love, patience, understanding and boundaries. You guys really are making a difference... even if it doesn't seem like it. You're amazing my friend." Michele smiled warmly, reached out and squeezed her friends hand.

Karen squeezed back and grinned "And, this is why I'm never too busy to meet you for coffee. Gosh I needed that pep talk! So, what mischief has the birth mother of doom been up to? I didn't think she could be bothered with the girls."

"The girls, well mostly Vic. Reconnected with her on Facebook ... and I thought it was good, because they need to know where they come from, right? So, anyway, the girls have this school project on tracing their roots... so they asked her for info about her side of the family," Michele rubbed her lips. "But she just point blank wouldn't give it to them."

"Why?"

"I ... really don't know, it was only a couple of names for a school project, so easy to just give it to them. No need for all the drama."

"Couldn't they just use your info, you're their Mum."

"Well, yes, they could have... but..." Michele began, trying to bury the spark of hurt and insecurity, "they wanted to use the info of their bloodline, they wanted to know who they are, and they deserve that, right? I get it. It's not a lot to ask. Anyway, since birth mum wouldn't give us the info, wonder hubby contacted birth mum’s cousin, asked her and got the info that way."

Her friend smiled, "Go hubby!"

"Then birth mum found out and did this giant rant on Facebook about how horrible and evil we were, going behind her back, invading her privacy etc etc ... she made it sound like we were creepy stalkers going through her trash or something."

"Ugh, why do people use Facebook to air their dirty laundry? I hope you ignored it!"

"Uh..." Michele looked up with a cringe "no... I ..."

"Michele!"

"No! I didn't start mudslinging, I did the truth in love thing Pastor Chris spoke about last year... I said I thought the girls had a right to know. That I was sorry we upset her in the way we got the info, but that the girls needed it for school and that she should be flattered the girls wanted it. That I was grateful to her for the lives of two of the most wonderful people in my life."

"So, what happened?"

"She deleted the post and sent me a bucket load of nasty messages." Michele shrugged apologetically.  
Then, gave a strangled whimper and gripped her head in both hands like she was in agony.

***

The building was dark and grimy, dusty light filtered from high arched windows covered with wrought iron grates, vaulted brick walls of indeterminate colour and age. The place looked like an abandoned church.  
A dark-haired man, face heavy with a scruffy beard and dressed in an immaculate black tailored suit stalked circles around another man.  
The man was shackled to a heavy metal chair with clanking chains and a huge iron collar padlocked round his neck. The prisoner was mid-thirties maybe, blonde haired and blue eyed dressed in grimy jeans and a casual shirt.

"Oh, you'll resist, at first." The gravelly voice of the man in black taunted his prisoner. And suddenly Michele knew the man in black was Crowley King of Hell, a demon.  
"But the humiliation will eat at you.  
Until, finally, you're worn down by your utter helplessness.  
And you call me... Master."

***

With a gasp, Michele blinked and swallowed thickly, as blood dribbled down from her nose.

"Are you okay?" Karen asked, a little horrified.

Michele nodded, still disoriented by the vision and grabbed a handful of tissues from her pocket, held them to her face and tilted her head back, aware of her friends concern, and utterly mortified by the attention.

Finally, the bleeding stopped.

"I ought to get home ..." she apologized to her friend finally, thinking in dull horror of the poor man who was being /would be tormented by the demon. She didn't know if anything she could do would help him, but she had to try.

"Are you sure you should be driving?" Karen asked worried.

"I'm fine, honestly, Karen, it looks worse than it is." She shot her friend a shaky smile and gathered up her son from his chair.

Karen sent a short prayer heavenwards as watched Michele walk away, back to the car park carrying her son.  
The pain written on her friend’s face and the amount of blood were troubling... but what really made Karen uneasy was that for a second, before Michele's eyes had closed in pain, she could have sworn she’d seen sparks of light flare in her green eyes.  
Karen shook her head at her wild imagination. it must have just been a trick of the malls lighting.


	44. “The time has come,” the Walrus said, “to speak of many things... of ships.... and Kings.”

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 44: “The time has come,” the Walrus said, “to speak of many things... of ships.... and Kings.”**

  
"So thank you you again for meeting with us, Dr. Ochoa." Sam spoke with his usual polite ease as he followed the middle aged academic into the large space behind the museums everyday scene.

  
"Of course, Agent. I..." The lady sighed painfully. "We've had two murders in two days. The police have no idea what's going on, and -- " she faded off looking up at the two men in distress.

  
"Well, that's why we're here." Dean informed her gruffly.

  
"Now, you said victim number two brought some Timber Troopers through here, right?"

  
"16 hours ago, they were standing right where you are." The doctor said looking slightly overwhelmed.

  
"Is there anything new to the museum?"

  
"Well, here in the lab, three traveling exhibits have been uncrated. One's already on display. The other two are being prepped." She explained.

  
"Dr. Ochoa?" A man called from the entry looking impatient and harassed.

  
"Excuse me."

  
"Sure." Sam gave her slightly forced smile.

  
"Okay, so..." Dean cleared his throat, "including the Massachusetts Vic, that is two teachers and one scout leader."

  
"People who supervise kids." Sam added, as his brother fished his EMF meter out of his suit jacket pocket and turned it on. It warbled enthusiastically.

"Whoa." Dean turned off the meter with a small snap. "There's a lot of action in here. Okay... well... I'm switching my vote from witch to ghost."

  
"I don't know. EMF isn't that surprising at a museum. They're always filled with ADHD spirits and their tethers, you know?" Sam reasoned with a slight raise of his eyebrows.

  
"Okay… but if our killer is a chain rattler, how we gonna figure out which one it is?"

  
Sam just responded with a small lift of his chin and a roll of his eyes, when was life ever simple? Seriously, Dean should know that.  
They split up and began to look around the exhibits.

Dean thoughtfully fingered a pitted bone handled blade from one of the displays, testing its weight and heft "Hmm. Aztecs were pretty serious about their killings. Aztec ghost. Yeah, I like that." he rumbled to himself. As he to put the knife back on the display rack, it slipped and tumbled to the table, clattering embarrassingly.

  
Sam looked up from the thing he was examining with a 'I can't take you anywhere' bitchface.

Guiltily Dean returned the knife, and pretended nonchalance as he ambled over to his brother.

  
"What you got?" He queried looking at the wooden carving of a woman his brother was standing by. A figurehead.

  
"It's from a ship, um, a brigantine, called The Star. Sunk in a storm off the New England coast. Currently on loan from the Maritime Museum in -- wait for it -- Andover, Massachusetts."

  
"Really?" Dean asked recognizing the correlation between the victims and the exhibit.

  
"Yeah. Sunk in a storm in 1723." Sam continued while his brother looked down consideringly.

"W-wait a minute. I know something about something, about this ship—“ Dean said sounding like he was getting a fix on something.

  
"Um, it was, uh, headed to the New World? Weighed anchor in Leith, Scotland?” Sam continued with details, hoping to jog his brother's mind and help him make a connection.

  
"Leith. Yes!” Dean held up a hand with a smile.

  
Sam gave him an impatient 'share with the class' look.

  
"Gavin MacLeod! This was his ship."

  
"Crowley's kid?" Sam asked, surprised.

  
"Yep." Dean answered with a nod.

The brothers considered the figure head.  
What were the chances it was just a coincidence?  
A ghost of a chance at best.  
Either way their next move was pretty clear. They should talk to Gavin, see if they could narrow the search down. Before another teacher died.

  
Dean slid out his phone and scrolled through his contacts.

…ooo0ooo…

"What do you want?" Crowley rasped in irritation when he picked up Dean's call.

  
"Need a favor." The elder Winchester replied laconically.

  
"You...need... You—-?” Crowley spluttered sounding hugely pissed. "Turns out that behind that whole moron facade, you and your brother are, in fact, morons!" He hissed in fury. "You let Lucifer's love child live?!!!"

  
The brothers shared a look. “How do you even know about that?" Dean asked.

  
"I don't owe you an explanation."

  
"Okay, so I'm -- I'm guessing this isn't the best time to ask you to get in touch with Gavin so we can talk to him?" Sam broke in between his brother and The King of Hell, placatingly.

  
"Are you out of your minds?" Crowley spat apoplectically.

  
"You know what, Crowley?" Dean responded, thinking on his feet. "When you set Gavin free to live in our time and possibly screw up the rest of human history, we didn't hunt him down, okay? So I think you owe us." He shot his brother a 'worth a shot' look over the phone, Sam returned it with a shrug, wondering if it might work.

"You and Bullwinkle, fix this mess! Before it hatches." Crowley grated "Then, maybe, then, we'll talk about my son." He hung up.

  
Dean considered his silent phone with a sour look and a shrug.  
Sam sighed and raked his hair back out of his face. "So, now what do we do?" He asked.  
"We'll figure it out, we always do."

…ooo0oo…

Sam studied his phone with a frown as he sipped his coffee in the museum café.

  
"Mail from Michele... Hmm..." he read through the email, then tossed the phone to his brother.

Dean read over the email and snorted. "So... Crowley's play date. Not exactly useful, blonde guy, mid 30s... could be anyone."

"Or anything." Sam agreed, "think that's where Crowley heard about Kelly Kline?”

  
"Guess, could be, you thinkin’ angel?"

  
"We gonna ask Cas?"

Dean sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck. "And say what exactly? Can you tell us if one of the feathery bag of dicks is missin’, cos Crowley might have one in his lost n found. Cas, Crowley, and the douche patrol would start askin’ questions. It's bad enough Rowena knowin’ something funny’s up. But if your pet wants to stay on the down low...."

"Yeah..." Sam agreed with a sigh.  
Then, his face lit up, he grinned at his brother, a sly flash of dimples. "Rowena's Gavin's grandmother... Maybe we don’t need Crowley, think Rowena might be interested in tracking down her grandson ...?"

  
"Worth a go." Dean hummed thoughtfully.

  
…ooo0ooo…

Rowena sat opposite the Winchester brothers wondering why she had, once again, allowed herself to be dragged into their orbit, while they continued telling her a story about dead teachers and ghosts.

  
"Your little story's fascinating, but you said there was something in this for me?" She cut to the chase.

  
"If the killer is a ghost, it may be tethered to something on the ship." Samuel explained, serious and earnest eyed. As if that act would work on her. "…So we need Intel on the vessel." he finished, hands clasped in his lap.

  
"Get a library card." She suggested, picking up her bag to leave. "You two still owe me for helping you in Arkansas." She reminded them.

Samuel looked down unhappily and took a irritated breath, then reached out, grabbing her arm with his huge paw of a hand.  
"Sit down." He ordered, eyes hard.

  
Breaking his grasp with a jerk, she sat back down feeling betrayed and cornered.  
Flaming Winchester’s! She should have known better than to come after the farce with the Black Grimoir.

  
"We know of a guy who has firsthand knowledge of The Star."

  
"So?"

  
"So, if you find him, we actually do have something that you'll like. Like, really like." Dean smiled, like he was about to give her a present.

  
Intriguing!

  
The boys shared a momentary glance, it was clear both Winchesters were dying to see the effect of this.

  
"Who is this eyewitness?" She asked coyly.

  
Sam shot his brother a look and smirked, Dean tilted his head, his eyes sparkling.

  
"His name is Gavin Macleod, he's your grandson."

  
Strangely enough, the Winchester brothers were correct.

…ooo0ooo…

Rowena spread the black cloth covered with arcane runes and glifs over the small motel table and positioned the chrystal globe in the centre.

Sam watched fascinated, while Dean paced impatiently.

  
Rowena hands hovered over the ball eyes narrowed in concentration " _Ostende illum mihi quem quaero Gavin Macleod, Ostende illum mihi quem quaero Gavin Macleod, Ostende illum mihi quem quaero Gavin Macleod.... "_ she chanted over and over again.

  
First a spark, then a flicker, then a pulsing radiance built within the chrystal depths.

  
Dean stopped pacing. Sam watched, lips slightly parted.

  
A smile curved Rowena’s lips, she reached out blindly and began writing on the pad of motel stationary.

  
Letting out a pent up breath, Rowena allowed the magic to die and dropped the pen. Her shoulders slumping with exhaustion.

  
Dean snatched the pad and began tapping the information into a web browser.

  
Sam dropped a hand to Rowena’s shoulder. "Thank you! Can I get you anything?" He asked solicitously.

  
"A cup of tea would be lovely, Samuel." She replied with a smile, folding the cloth and storing it and her other spell paraphernalia away in her Burberry handbag.

…ooo0ooo…

The Winchester brothers waited for the bus to pull in, hands in pockets, breath misting in the fridgid morning air.

  
"There he is." Dean rumbled, recognising the young man even after 3 years.

  
“Yep.” Sam agreed.

  
“Gavin.” Dean called out.

  
Both brothers raised a hand in greeting, drawing Gavin’s attention.

  
“Hey, Gavin. Good to see you.” Sam greeted, as both brothers shook his hand. “How's life in the 21st century treatin' you?”

  
“Oh, fine.” Gavin answered in a cheerful Scottish brogue. “Where's my father, then?”

  
The brothers shared a look.

  
“Walk with us, Gav.” Dean invited with a slight head tilt

  
“How sick is he?” Gavin asked, worried.

  
“About that... we might've exaggerated a little bit.” Sam answered.

  
“Lied. We lied.” Dean clarified.

  
“Okay, well, we knew you wouldn't come if it was just us.” Sam tried to sound reasonable.

  
“We need your help, Gavin.” Dean continued.

  
"Help?” Gavin looked around realising he'd been tricked into the meeting, by two men his father often spoke rather venomously.  
“ _Help_!” He cried out trying to attract the attention of a passer by.

  
“Nah, we're fine.” Sam reassured both Gavin and the stranger. “Um, just hear us out… please.”

  
“How did you find...” The brothers shared a look, Gavin rephrased. “What are you going to _do_ to me?”

  
Dean pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “Just wanna ask you a few questions.” He unfolded a flyer about the shipwreck exhibit. “About this.” Held it out to Gavin.

  
“Dear God, that's The Star.” Gavin breathed, “That's my ship!” Staring at the flyer with an incredulous smile.

  
“Well, it should've been.” Sam countered.

  
“Yeah, we know all about her.” Dean refolded the flyer and looked down.

  
“We figured there's someone you'd wanna meet.” Sam added turning to the big black boat of car they stood beside, and nodded to the small, redheaded woman sitting inside.

  
The woman climbed out, her eyes on Gavin's face.

  
“Hello, Gavin.” She said cautiously. “You look just like my father when he was young.” Her voice was soft, the burr of home about it.

  
“Gavin, meet Rowena, your grandmother.” Hands in pockets Sam introduced them with a few nods.

  
“My… grandmother?” Gavin scoffed “She cannae be alive.”

  
“Well, technically, dude, neither can you.” Dean countered, and Gavin turned his eyes back to the woman before him in amazement.


	45. Family Matters

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 45: Family Matters**

"Sam, do we really have time to let them play catch up now?" Dean grumbled watching Gavin and his grandmother sit in the small cafe through the intervening glass of the impala’s windshield and the cafes glassed in front window.  
Dean’s knee bounced impatiently as he shot his brother a frustrated look.

"Drink your coffee Dean. Relax. It's only half an hour. We do owe Rowena." Sam quirked a half smile. "If you're really bored you could sift through some missing person reports for blonde mid 30’s guys."

"Sam! We are not gonna to go chasing after Mitches red herring. She's okay, don't get me wrong, but she's got no damn idea about the real world."

Sam let out a quiet huff, eyeing Rowena and Gavin again, speculated internally on what they were saying to each other.  
Rowena had seemed so ... gentle with Gavin. With everything he thought he knew about her it was more than a little surprising. Sam found himself envying that scene inside that cafe window.  
He wondered if their interaction was more or less strained, than his and Dean’s halting communication with their Mom. Even twenty minutes after meeting, they seemed more at ease.

While he tried hard not to show it, there was always a twisting feeling of anxiety in his gut whenever he thought of Mary Winchester.

She had always been a blank space in his life, one his older brother had done his best to stretch himself over (and to a certain level, Dean had succeeded fairly spectacularly.) Maybe that was the problem, Mary Winchester was Dean’s Mom, she was Sam's as well of course. But it was Dean who had the expectations and gold tinged childhood memories of her; so many of which, turned out to be distorted through the gold haze of childhood.  
There was a little boy inside Sam's older brother, still expecting Mary to be the woman who fitted with the four-year-old, Dean had buried deep inside; like some kind of bug caught and preserved in amber.  
Sam didn’t have any memories of Mom, and he’d long ago let go of the unmet expectations. Come to terms with the fact that their Mom couldn't or wouldn't see past the surface, and meet the needs of either of their inner children, that she saw only two, rough at the edges 6-foot Hunters.

Sam had watched his brother try so hard, and he was sure they had made connections, flickering moments of bonding over bacon and beef jerky... More than he'd been able to forge in his own fumbling way with Mom. And yet Mary kept walking away from them both.  
It hurt him in some deep, hard to reach place, wanting to know his Mom; but it gutted Dean.  
For that Sam felt a bit of coldness inside him towards their returned Mother, he struggled constantly to repress it; along with the sharp shards of guilt which shifted uneasily inside of him when ever he confronted that coldness. Was it really just jealousy over what Mary meant to his brother?

Sam had Dean. He'd always had Dean. He had never been willing to blindly accept anything that wounded his brother. It was one of the things that had built the wall between Sam and their father. The way John Winchester had treated his eldest, his unrealistic expectations, the never ending critism and perfectionism, the way John always assumed that Dean could do and be everything, it had all caused damage to Dean.  
But Sam had a lifetime of John Winchester, in all his forms. Which helped balance the resentment, knowledge that his father had tried, often in impossible circumstances. He often failed, granted, but he'd done his best. There were many fathers under less strain that would have just walked out and left him and Dean to the system, and what would have become of them then?  
Sam could see that much more clearly now, than he ever could when he was younger. Along with the moments of resentment, Dad had earned respect, and yes love too.

With Mom, the only real thing he had as a balance was who and what she was. What he knew he ought to feel.  
Those things were incredibly slippery.  
Especially with her never sticking round.

But ... there it was .... The image of her holding a gun to her temple, saying she loved them, ready to pull the trigger ... So, he wouldn't lose Dean.

She'd stood by their side to fight Ramiel, and save Cas.

The reasons he had, to repress those moments of resentment towards Mary Winchester and cut her some slack. They weren't childish reasons, Sam told himself... they were more than enough.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes with another small huff of breath.

"Sam," Dean frowned and looked across at his brother, "it's just not feasible, you know that, that article you read me couplea months ago... 90,000 missing people here in the States at any one time, 60% of em adults, more than 52% of em male, 56% are white..." Sam raised his eyebrows, he remembered reading Dean that USA today article, back when they'd been hunting Lucifer. The entire time Dean'd been cleaning the weapons, looking for all the world like he'd been ignoring his younger brother.

Sam rubbed his lips to hide his smile and made a considering noise in the back of his throat.

"You don't have to tell her we're not looking into it." Dean suggested magnanimously. "Send her a couplea photos that could be a match. Pokin’ things with Crowley though. It's just not worth it. Crowley’s has his uses. Mitch sorta does too. Just gotta keep em outta each other's orbits."

"I'm not arguing Dean... it ...it makes sense, I'll find some missing person reports that fit the bill."

"How ‘bout we give her a call while Rowena and Gavin re-enact "Long Lost Family" the Macleod edition, in there over cups of tea."

…ooo0ooo…

Michele was multitasking the job of folding laundry and reading her son a Linley Dodd book about the cat that was the family pets namesake.

"Slinky Malinky was blacker than black, a stalking and lurking adventurous cat.  
He had bright yellow eyes and a warbling wail, and a kink at the end of his very long tail." She half chanted the words from memory folding another shirt, as her son sat next to her holding the book on his lap.

"Gat." The little boy agreed flashing her a happy dimpled grin, as she leaned over him and flipped the cardboard page.

She answered the Skype call but kept reading.

"He was cheeky and cheerful, friendly and fun. He chased after leaves and he rolled in the sun.

Hi boys what's up?"

"I've never seen Dean chase lea-ves." There was a smirk in Sam's voice right up until the last word, when Michele was pretty sure, Dean had hit him.

"It's story time at Cassa Chadwick, we're having a Slinky fest.

But at night he was wicked, fiendish and sly. Through moonlight and shadows, he'd prowl and he'd pry." She continued quoting the book, making Sam snort in amusement.

"Well, at least it rhymes." Dean rumbled.

"Yip, but the books about a cat, Sam, not your brother, if they rhyme they're much easier to learn off by heart, so you can do something else as well."

"Oh yeah, I do not like green eggs and ham, I do not like them, Sam I am." Dean quoted drolly.

"Man ... I loved that book." Sam said with a smile in his tone.

"You sure did," Dean grumbled "...course you loved the freakin Lorax more, when Pastor Jim gave us that stack of Doctor Seuss books from the church rummage sale I didn't know if I loved him or hated him. Damn ecofreak book!"

"I remember...We ...lost it when we moved." Sam sounded aggrieved.

"Bout that Sammy, I may've, sorta, stuffed it in a trash can during one of our pit stops. You... ya cried so much, I felt like shit after... but by that stage we were a state away ...Dad said not to tell you. Think he hated readin’ that book as much as I did."

"DEAN!" Sam's voice was full of outrage and hurt.

"Ummm how old were you Sam?" Michele broke in.

"Uh 4 or 5...?”

"So, that made Dean what? All of 8 or 9. For an 8 or 9-year-old big brother, it would’ve practically been self-defence, Sam. That book is really long and wordy. We got it out of the library and it went back after I read it to the girls... once. Somehow I think Dean had to read it more than once if he remembers it that strongly."

"Hundred times." Dean muttered "So 'bout Crowley’s playmate, we'll look into it. Email ya all the missing person’s reports that might fit the bill, see if you can ID him."

Michele smiled.  
Then let out a pained hiss as her vision shattered into images and pain.  
Distantly, she heard Sam ask if she was ok and managed to say something through a mouth attached to a skull split with lightning.

With a weary sigh, Michele spat a mouthful of blood into a handful of tissue and stared at it thoughtfully, considering everything the vision had updated her on.

"Sam, Dean, you have many marvellous and useful talents" She said dryly.

"Uh..." Sam began.

"On top of those you're very good liars." She continued, tiredly holding her shattered head in her hands, feeling another wave of vertigo. "But really! Do us all a favour, whatever is in charge of all of this, apparently, it has a thing for the truth.... me knowing the truth. You're right I do have 'no damn idea about the real world'... How does a country lose 90,000 people?" She asked, her voice catching at the end of the sentence.

Dean swore and Sam made a quiet sound.

"Possibly you're also right," she continued, "the blonde guy could be an angel, he could be anything... I don't... I don't know. Maybe it's just a reminder that Crowley is one of the bad guys, not your friend... I don't know. But... I just can't help feeling it's important..."

"Michele"  
"Mitch"

"I understand you guys are used to lying, it's one of your go to moves... especially with women. I also know you're trying to protect me, and I do appreciate the sentiment... but... well, lying to me just wastes blood some poor sap donated and gives me a killer headache okay? Tell me as little or much as you want, but don’t lie… please.  
I’m gonna go, I need to go lie down for a bit. I hope you find your ghost, and I really wish I could be more useful... But I'm going to assume God already gave you everything you need to sort that job."  
Michele logged out of Skype.

"Well, I think the Macleod family catch up has had enough time." Dean announced into the silence thumping his palm decisively on one jean clad knee.

"Uh yeah, let’s take Gavin to the museum." Sam replied with a small swallow, his brow furrowed.

…ooo0ooo…

When Gavin recognized a locket from Shipwrecks of New England, Star exhibit manifesto, to be a gift he had bought for his then-girlfriend, Fiona; It made sense.

He'd been supposed to meet her the night he was to board the ship, she'd hoped to convince him to take her with him on the dangerous Atlantic crossing. She had believed that they could face the brave new world together, bound by their love.

But Abaddon had gotten to Gavin before Fiona did, kidnapping him as leverage against his father, Crowley King of Hell. Finding Gavin gone that night Fiona had thought he’d left without her, so she smuggled herself aboard the ship and had then died when the ship sank, alone pissed and heart broken.

They were perfect conditions to produce a vengeful spirit, tethered to the locket... which had vanished, coincidentally with a teacher led visit from the Pembroke Day School for girls.

They had arrived at the Pembroke Day School for girls, moments too late to save one teacher, but in enough time to save another.

After a little coaching from Rowena, Gavin had summoned and spoken with Fiona. Her tale was heartbreakingly tragic.

After she had smuggled herself on board the Star to be with the man she loved, she was discovered onboard the ship, but Gavin was nowhere to be seen. As a stow away with no protector aboard, she had been abused and raped by the crew. The other passengers wouldn't lift a hand to help her, encouraged by the teacher from their village, Mistress Alloway that said she, “deserved the treatment, for throwing herself at Gavin.”

Fiona's trauma, heartbreak and anger had warped her once gentle spirit, focusing it like a laser on working out vengeance upon teachers. Who to Fiona's shattered mind, claimed to love children and then betrayed them.

….

The two MacLeod’s and the two Winchester’s sat across from each other, the fire in the room burned warm, but everyone felt a chill that had little to do with the March chill in the air or recent snow.

"Her life aboard that ship was so unbearable, she felt death would be a relief. But the sweet maid I knew is now a spirit bent on revenge." Gavin told his listeners mournfully.

"So, we agree? Fiona has to be stopped." Sam said.

"We can't burn her bones. They're at the bottom of the Atlantic," Dean added.

"Could destroy the locket. Then again, she might also be tethered to something else on the ship." The conversation bounced between the brothers.

"Either way, nothing can bring back the poor people she killed." Gavin's voice was full of grief.

The brothers shared a weighted glance.

"Actually, there might be a-a way to fix pretty much everything." Sam said carefully.

"What?"

Dean took a breath "Keep Fiona from going Casper in the first place." He said almost painfully gazing at Gavin.

"Yeah. There's no reason for her to be a ghost if she's not angry and alone... on the ship." Sam's voice was full of pained earnestness.

"You don't intend to tamper with the flow of time, do you?" Rowena broke into the discussion.

"That's up to Gavin." Dean stated everyone was silent for a moment. Eyes met and flinched away.  
"Look, we're lookin' for a fix here, okay? This is it. We get him aboard that ship, he travels with Fiona, keeps her safe."

"And go to his death. That's your solution?" Rowena argued horrified.

"I didn't say it was the fun one, okay? Just the one, and you know it." Dean answered Rowena with a deflecting look "And it would keep history intact."

Gavin took a breath "I...was thinking the same thing." He met Rowena’s eyes as he spoke "I loved her. She loved me. That's the only reason any of this happened. I can spare her the nightmare she's trapped in. I cannae say I ever fit here. Here, I'm alone. Fiona and me, we'll spend eternity together." With each word Rowena’s face melted from stubborn denial to pained acceptance.

"Never gonna happen." A gravelly voice broke into the discussion. Everyone looked up to see Crowley King of Hell.

"Just 'cause Dim and Dimmer here can't keep their own family all in the same dimension, doesn't mean they can mess with mine!" Crowley spat.

"Father, I want to do this." Gavin scolded

"What you want is a gym membership, happy hour at Hooters, and Cubs tickets -- none of which are available anywhere else but here." Crowley insisted.

"I've made up my mind." Gavin stated, un-swayed by his father.

"Then, why did you call me?" Crowley demanded.

"You called him?" Dean asked.

"To say, goodbye." Gavin answered painfully.

"Let him go, Fergus." Rowena added.

"Butt out."

"Fergus, he's not like us. He believes in things. Let him do what he believes is right." Rowena pleaded.

Gavin stood up and Crowley reached out to grab his son, and transport him away. But Rowena was to quick for him.

"Manete!" With a snapped spell, Crowley was frozen, hand still reaching for his son.

"Mother... Damn you." The demon rasped, eyes shiny.

Gavin stood, just out of reach of his father’s frozen hand and stared into his eyes, "I'm sorry, Father," he said.

Crowley stood frozen as Rowena, Gavin, Sam and Dean turned their backs on him and walked away, without a second glance.

Crowley stood, frozen, eyes shiny with tears of frustration he couldn’t shed.


	46. If I Could Turn Back Time

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 46: If I could Turn Back Time**

****

"Gavin is there anything you want before you, uh... go back?" Sam asked with a furrowed brow as he looked over his shoulder at him in the back seat.

"I cannae think of anything I might possibly want, in these circumstances." Gavin answered with a small shrug and a wavering smile.

"Gav," Dean teetered on the edge of telling the young man he didn't have to go through with the plan, but he stopped himself, "you're a good guy." He finished lamely.

"Father said much the same of you both." Gavin answered thoughtfully.

The Winchester brothers shot him a startled look. "Wait, Crowley talks about us?" Dean asked incredulously.

"Complains might be a more apt term. But, be that as it may, yes often. Father oftentimes said you are the reason he visits - visited me as often as he did. The man I knew as my father and buried before coming to this place, was a worse man than the demon that now replaces him, odd as it may sound to Ye. While he may curse you for this change, and oftentimes does, at length.  
I, I am thankful, for these past three years. For the chance to meet my grandmother, if only briefly... and the chance to be reunited with my Fiona once more." Gavin's tone was bitter sweet.

Sam and his brother exchanged a look and Dean raised an eyebrow and gave Gavin a fleeting grin. "Gav, that whole speech right there, is, in a nutshell why people think the Scottish are crazy." He rumbled good naturedly training his eyes back on the dark road.

Sam felt his phone buzz and checked his emails. "Ah, so, Rowena came up with the goods. Looks like the bunker’s stocked with everything we need, so.... We will be good to go."

"Great, well, you two should get some shut eye if you can, we've got hours left before we hit Lebanon."

The inhabitants of the impala returned to silent contemplation of the black void outside the car and the insides of their own heads.

…ooo0ooo…

Dean ranged the various spell components Sam had requested on the heavy wooden table.  
Sam glanced between the thick book of lore and the iPad in his hand, brow furrowed in concentration.  
"Dean can you..." Dean handed him the Mortar and pestle and a small box of measures, Sam shot him a dimpled smile and brushed his hair back out of his eyes, before glancing across to where Gavin stood uncertainly, clutching Fiona’s locket.

His smile slipped away.

He handed his brother the iPad distractedly and Dean put it out of the way, on one of the book shelves, occasionally magic had a tendency to fry the newer electronics if they were too close to the action.

Dean watched his brother measure out various ingredients with a feeling of satisfaction, Sammy’s long hands moved with a sureness and grace even as his brow furrowed with concentration.  
They had come a long way from simple salt and burns, that was for sure.  
Sam at least, deserved the title of a legacy Man of Letters; moments like these made Dean proud of his kid brother.

Sam took a breath, stood up and stretched out his spine, then began grinding the contents of the mortar. Gavin and Dean drew closer.

"That soup yet?"

"Almost." Sam answered then poured the mortars contents into the large metal bowl with a slight flourish and laid the snowy feather on top.

Sam picked up the knife, glanced up at Gavin, "You ready?"

"Do it." Gavin extended his palm, and Sam made a quick cut across it, Gavin winced clenching his hand into a fist to let the blood drip into the bowl, soaking the contents.

After a few more moments Dean handed him a bandana to wrap the wound.

Sam carried the bowl, the lore book and a paintbrush over to a clear stretch of wall and began to carefully paint the sigil from the lore book using the bloody slurry.

"Ready to do this, Gavin?" Dean found himself asking.

  
"You're positive this will work?"

"Never done it before,” he admitted hands in pockets. "But our granddad did. And Abaddon. And Rowena tweaked the spell so that you could use it."

"All right. I think that's it." Sam told them with a deep sigh.  
Getting to his feet he exchanged places with Gavin.

Dean blinked past the burn of sudden emotion in his eyes looking away and back at Gavin "..Well, this is a tough one."

"You're a good guy, Gavin." Sam told him, brow clenched. "Thank you."

"Hopefully..." Gavin's voice wavered as he tried to put on a brave face, "this is all for the best." He kissed the locket he held in his blood-stained hand. Dark eyes staring back at the brothers like some kind of animal waiting slaughter.

Dean blinked and swallowed hard, there was a bravery in Gavin in that moment that made his own seem like a tiny, small thing. Would he ever love anyone the way Gavin loved Fiona? He doubted it.  
In that moment, he both envied and hated the thing that brought Gavin to this point.  
"Beam him up, Scotty." He choked out past a throat narrowed with emotion.

 _"Kah-nee-lah, poo-goh, kah-nee-lah."_ Sam chanted the spell, his voice soft and hesitant, laced with emotion.

On the wall the sigil ignited, burning brightly.

A bright glowing shape materialised beside Gavin, little by little Fiona's form became visible.  
Gavin turned and in that moment, all his remaining fear was stripped away, as he faced the woman he loved, the woman he loved more than life.

Sam took a pained breath, eyes rolled ceilingward to stop tears from spilling, his mind and heart filled with an overwhelming yearning for Jess, gone so many years. But in that moment, she felt achingly close, just out of reach.

Dean stood transfixed, his lips slightly parted in awe, as Gavin and Fiona laced fingers, Gavin's form began to glow along with Fiona’s . The sight was the most achingly beautiful thing Dean had ever witnessed.  
Then, the glow intensified still further, the two vanished like trails of bright smoke, leaving only a dimming memory and bitter sweet ache.

For a long time the brothers stood side by side staring at the empty space left, each pursuing his own thoughts.  
Then Dean shook himself and nudged his brothers shoulder

"You want first shower? I'll clear this lot away." He gestured to the spell components.

Sam nodded once, turned and made his way slowly down the hallway as if sleep walking.

Dean flicked his eyes back to the empty spot and took a low breath, began clearing away the debris of the mornings work.

By the time Sam returned, the only proofs Gavin had been there was the faint smell of bleach and a few damp shadows on the wall, where he had painted with Gavin's blood.


	47. Truth without Love

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 47: Truth without Love**

Michele woke from the dream with the taste of blood on her lips.

 _Prophecy then,_ she thought sadly, sliding silently out of bed, padded into the lounge. What was the point to showing her what she'd seen?

The damage was done.

What was she supposed to do?

  
Warn them?

  
It wouldn't help anything.

  
All she'd seen was the closing act, a bad attempt to put things right, which caused more carnage.

  
Besides, Dean Winchester would want to shoot any messenger who came with _that_ warning, he just wouldn’t want to believe her.

It was something Peaches had always said, to hurt Dean, all you needed to do was hurt Sam. You got a double hit for your money.  
Family was one of the pillars of who Dean was. This was going to tear him apart, he wouldn't know which way to turn.

And Sam ... _Oh Sammy,_ the ache of hurt and confusion in his changeable eyes brought a lump to her throat, the way he'd tried to be reasonable, _despite everything_ , it was beyond brave.

It wasn't fair!

It wasn't right!

Michele felt the urge to draw blood on their behalf.  
To grab Mary Winchester and shake her until her teeth rattled and force her to _**see and feel**_ her son’s pain.

But Mary Winchester was out of reach. Which was probably just as well. Messing with someone else's family stuff never ended well.

"God, what the heck am I supposed to do here?" She sighed into the darkness

…ooo0ooo…

"So, history should be back on track, sendin’ Gavin back to the moment he came, it should be like he never left, right?... But our Gavin didn't hate Crowley... The spirit Bobby raised with the signet ring did though? So, how does that work?" Dean frowned. "It's how we got the location of Crowley’s bones."

"Dean, don't man... _seriously_ , let it go."

"So, we remember it, but the rest of the world’s been reset, like with the whole un-sinking the Titanic thing? Who wants us to remember this time? Cos it sure ain’t Cas."

"Dude seriously... "

"Recon Mitch's on deck?"

Sam checked the time and frowned harder at his brother. "Its nearly 3pm there, but Dean ..."

"She knows what we were doing last couple of days, right? So, if Fiona never went Casper cos Gavin was with her on the ship, did we go to Iowa? I just wanna see okay."

Sam huffed in irritation as his brother, as he made the Skype call.

And smirked when Michele refused it.  
His brother’s top lip gave a small irritated twitch at being denied.  
Instead, Michele sent Dean a string of text.

Sam smiled and leaned closer to read it.

HobbitualPsychick, 7:47PM   
Hi Dean, how're my favourite real life action heroes today? I’m just picking up Mr 8 from school. In an effort to save my phone data and not have the other mums look at me like I'm nuts or having an affair, do me a favour and use your keyboard for once."

Dean grumbled to himself and started typing.

**7:48PM  
Mitch can I ask u some questions?**

HobbitualPsychick, 7:49PM  
Sure hon, we have about ten minutes till they release the hoard from kiddie jail. If that's not enough we can 'talk' when we all get home.

**7:50PM  
What’ve Sam n I been doing past few days?**

HobbitualPsychick, 7:50PM  
Ummm Dean? Why are you asking me, don't you know? Have you been playing with witches again!!!?

**7:51PM  
I'm fine. Humour me**

There was a lag.

HobbitualPsychick, 7:52PM  
Yip ok, you’ve been hunting a ghost, that crushes internal organs, at a museum. The ghost is linked to a ship. The Star, last we talked you were going to take Rowena’s grandson back to the museum to try work out what was tethering the ghost.  
Are you sure you're okay? Where's Sam? If you're having trouble remembering stuff... you really ought to tell him.... please."

Dean snorted and raised his eyebrows at his brother.

"Huh... so she remembers?!" Sam muttered in response, "that's ... interesting."

"Ain't it just, better check we actually fixed things."

**7:53PM  
Mitch my memory's peachy and Sam's right here giving me his best bitchface. Just testing u**

HobbitualPsychick, 7:54PM  
Testing me? ... Seriously Dean?

"Don't piss her off Dean, best case scenario is kitten MEMs." Sam advised.

Dean smiled slyly as he typed,

**7:54PM  
Need to know basis, sweetheart.**

Sam cast a look at his older brother. He was pretty sure Dean was baiting her.

HobbitualPsychick, 7:55PM  
And I don't need to know. I get it... sometimes sharing…. is not caring.

Sam stared at Michele's response, it seemed a little off.

**7:56PM  
You're our cute little canary.**

Dean practically taunted her.

"Dean, enough!" Sam growled threateningly.

Dean went still, his devil may care grin dissolved, Sam felt a moment of surprise, Dean never backed down that quick.

Then Sam read the screen.

HobbitualPsychick, 7:57PM  
Ah Dean -fond smile, ruffles his hair and pats his cheek- you really are an adorable brat.

Michele did it all the time, dropping in those gestures. It was weird, but Sam found it kind of nice.

 _Those_ gestures though, the thought of anyone taking those liberties with his brother was ... bizarre.  
Dean apparently didn't quite know how to respond. It was like he'd been short circuited.

Sam slid the laptop away from his brothers stilled hands.

**7:58PM  
Hi Michele. Sorry about Dean, he's being a Jerk.**

HobbitualPsychick, 7:58PM  
Hi Sam! -warm smile- it's fine, I have two teenaged daughters, an autistic son and a toddler going through the terrible twos... Not to mention a husband, that's sort of similar to your brother in some ways. What's another brat in the mix?

**7:59PM  
That is one way to look at it, I guess.**

  
Sam typed. Looking sideways at his brother again.  
….Brat?

Dean was frowning slightly, but looked surprisingly un-pissed.

HobbitualPsychick, 8:00PM  
I meant what I said, and I said what I meant, Sam my friend. Tell me as much or as little as you need to, of course I am curious as heck (cos Dean’s a giant tease, and he knows it!) But I'm not going to push...  
I would like you both to know, I am here to help, if I can. You aren’t alone okay.  
Even if is just listening or being ‘your canary,’ okay?

HobbitualPsychick, 8:01PM  
Eek! speaking of brats, my smallest ones just broken into his brother’s classroom gotta go.....

**8:01PM  
Okay. We have to check out a few things here, take care, and thanks.**

  
"Well?" Sam asked his brother.

"It's _so nice_ you have another chick to have girly moments with Sammy." Dean gave him a shit eating grin, "I'm gonna go ring the school and check on the teachers, you do the cyber geek thing, see if Andover happened."

Dean walked out of the room to find the contact info, Sam shook his head and turned back to his laptop.

......

"So, the teachers at the girls' school are all back to work. It's like nothing ever happened. That's all the victims in Ohio." Phone in hand Dean returned a while later sounding pleased.

"Well, no mention of the Massachusetts murder either. Uh, no Fiona, no angry ghost. Looks like history is back on track.  
Thank you, Gavin."

The unmistakable sound of the bunkers door opening made both brothers look up. There were only two other people with access to the bunker.  
"Mom!"  
"Well, well!" Both boys spoke together.

"Hey!" Sam called out in greeting to his Mom, lifting both hands in welcome.

"It has been a while." Dean drawled "A long, long..." Dean gestured, cutting the air with one hand, "long, long, long, long while."

"Yeah," Sam held up a warning hand to his brother, silently requesting peace, "all right. He's dramatic, _as you know._ What he meant to say was, we missed you. Glad you're back." Sam looked up at his Mother with an eager Labrador grin.  
Dean regarded her with a forced smile which quickly fell away as he shoved his phone in his pocket.

Mary held up her burdens, "Burgers. Beer." She smiled and slid them across the map table.

"Yum." Sam enthused pulling out a bottle of beer.

"Mmm. Forgiven." Dean declared, grabbing a handful of fries and stuffing them in his mouth, "Whatcha been up to?"

"Oh. Jogging, tai chi, meditation. Melting rugaru brains."  
Both boys paused at the last. Dean’s enthusiastic chewing slowed and he stared at his mother like something hunted.

"Uh, m-m-melting rugaru brains?" Sam asked his tone careful.

  
Mary eyed both her son’s wary faces. "There's no easy way to say it, so I'm just gonna say it. I have sort of... been working with the British Men of Letters. "

Sam shook his head minutely. "M-- You -- you, uh... you uh ... _what_?" his face a study of searching confusion.

" _Ah_." Dean nodded to himself his eyes remote, as small things dropped into place.

  
His eyes slid to his brother, suddenly he had an urge to put his arms round Sam and shove him behind him, so he could place himself between his brother and his Mother, as he’d often done with Dad. Instead he stayed by Sam’s side, crossing his arms defensively.  
Sam began to talk haltingly.  
"Mom... we, um... we have a-a history with... _them_." He enunciated slowly, strugglingly. Changeable eyes trained on his mother.

"I know, Sam." Mary replied defensively. "And it was a hard decision. But they're doing good work. I have helped them save people, a lot of people. We can learn from them."  
Sam cringed. Dean narrowed his eyes, thinking of all the things Toni Bevell had ‘taught’ his little brother, while the bitch had had him, the nights he still woke up screaming and whimpering. The fact that tonight he would probably have another dose of those night terrors because of this very conversation. He stared at his mother with a scowl.

"Do not give me the face." Mary bit out at her eldest son.

"What face?" Dean grated tone surly.

" _You know the face."_ Mary continued as if, suddenly she was facing a child instead of a 6-foot man, as if his objections were childish.

"There's no face." Dean declared, his scowl deepening as he struggled to control his surging emotions.

" _That's the face._ " She countered with a flip of her hand.  
Deans lips narrowed further as he looked away struggling not to see Toni Bevell's face, her plum in the mouth vowels overlaying his mother’s.

"Mom," Sam broke in, "we have our own tool kit, and it works just fine. A-and for obvious reasons," Sam couldn't believe he had to spell this out, "like _broken ribs and burnt feet._.."  
Sam struggled to maintain eye contact with his mother past the pain, his eyes bouncing between his own hands and her face.  
He felt Dean shift next to him, physically pained by what his younger brother had gone through, because both brothers knew, ribs and feet was the least of it.  
Sam took a breath. “We don't trust the Brits,” he finished.  
A silence descended, unfilled by all the words both sons longed to hear.

“So where does that leave us?” Dean asked finally, shoving his hand into his pocket, gripping his phone in lue of a gun or a blade which his hand itched for.

“Same as always.” Mary said after a pause, both of her son waited for explanation. “ _Family_.”

Dean lifted his chin feeling a burn behind his eyes and swallowed. _Family_? His mind yammered _family?! That was her answer._  
Sam looked up at his mother’s face, betrayal and hurt twisting in his gut

“Just hear me out. Please.” Mary said earnestly.

“ _Wow_.” Dean breathed. “Just wow.” Turning away he ran a hand over his face, palming away moisture.

“Dean. What the British Men of Letters are doing what we're doing, _it's a better way._ ” Mary argued as Dean paced in a tight circle and Sam buried his face in his hands trying to knead the tension from his brow. Dean remembering Toni Bevell hold a knife to his brother’s eye as she purred about pain. How was _that a better way?_

“They—” Mary sighed. “Look, I'm not blind to who they are, or what they've done, but –“

“When? “ Sam demanded and Mary looked back in silence.  
“ _When_?” Sam asked again with a flick of his hand. “When did you start working with them?” his face miserable, because he really didn’t want the answer… _but they needed it._

“Since... before… the lake house.”

Sam snorted and rolled his face away deflated, it was worse than he could have imagined.

Dean’s green eyes homed in on her face like a laser.

“It wasn't Wally. They brought me that case.” Mary admitted.  
Sam stared at his mother as the hits kept coming.  
  
“You were runnin' an errand for the Brits. And you kept it from us?!” Dean asked incredulously. “ _Cas almost died_!” He reminded her. (“ _If you’re looking for someone to blame, look elsewhere.”_ The words echoed hollowly through Dean’s memory.)

“ I – “ Mary began

“A Hunter got _killed_.” Sam added.

“You think I don't know? I'm the one who burned his body. I'm the one who told his wife. I watch him die _every night._ ”

“ _Good_.” Dean’s green eyes turned to flint and his jaw clenched.

Mary sighed frustrated.

“I'm doing this for you. I'm playing three decades of catch up here.” She flared.

“And we're _not_?” Dean rasped. “How do you think this has been for us? We're your sons, and you've been gone. Our whole lives, _you've been gone!_  
You said that you needed time. _No_ ,” he held up a hand pointing an accusing finger at the woman in front of him, “ _you said you need space_. So, we gave you your space.” He held up his hands in surrender. “But you didn't need just space. _**No, you needed space from us.”**_ He accused while his voice rasped with emotion.

“That's not true. Dean, I'm trying –“

“How 'bout for once, you just try to be a **_mom_**?” he demanded, a Mom like Sam had been searching for on the _fucking internet. One that gives a **fucking damn!**_

“I am your mother, but _I am not just a mom._ **And you are not a child.** ” She hissed in response.

“ _I never was._ ” Dean responded with a small head shake, swallowing past the pain. “So between us and _them_?”  
  
“It's _not like that_!” She responded.

“Yeah, Mary, _it is_.” There was another silence where they locked gazes and Dean ached for all the words she didn't fill it with. Pleas and reassurances, for her to understand this was Sam, what the British Men of Letters had done to him, he couldn't let it go, he couldn't forgive, it was a betrayal of everything.

“And you made your choice,” he concluded finally, pointing upwards. “So there's the door.” He rasped and knew if he didn't leave now he would lose control completely; and he wasn't sure if it would end with blood on the floor.  
So, he walked out.

Mary turned to her youngest son as he pushed his chair back, his eyes trailing his brother.

“ _Sam_ ….” The young man looked up at her slowly, with the pleading eyes of an abused puppy. Shoulders hunched under his pain.

“You should go.” He said quietly and turned to follow his brother.


	48. Sleepless in Kansas

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 48: Sleepless in Kansas**

Michele flopped down on the bed with a weary sigh, her small feline companion bounced up onto the bed, settled herself against the curve of her mistress' hip and began purring.  
The kids were stowed in their rooms, either asleep or working on assignments for school. Peace and quiet enveloped her, after a day of almost constant motion.

It wasn't often her husband did out of town, overnight jobs, but it was part of the deal. She got to be a stay at home mum, and he got to travel when work needed him.  
So, for the first time since she'd been unable to ignore and hide the physical symptoms of her 'condition,' she had an evening where there were no troubled eyes watching her every move, and no work roughened hands constantly reaching out to touch her, as if making sure she was actually there. 

Phil was worried and didn't understand what was happening. His excessive attentiveness reminded her of the quiet desperation her mother’s little dog used to show whenever anyone started packing a suitcase.  
She got it, really, she did. But damn! It was nice to have some space.  
Well it would be... if he'd stop calling her every few hours. Michele rolled her eyes at the thought and rested her chin in her palm with a soft sigh.

Unlocking her phone, she ran a finger over lips still chapped by over-zealous goodbye kisses and surveyed her email box with another sigh.   
So many of her fic friends had emailed and she just couldn't see her way clear to reply... she wasn't doing such a great a job of compartmentalising things with Sam and Dean. It was just so... confusing, when one of your friend groups were using doppelgangers of your other friends as toys.   
But she couldn't judge. The whole thing about sins and casting the first stone, she wasn't sinless.

Her head’s response was a deep blanket of silence whenever she contemplated answering her fanfic friends emails, ( _“if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all”._ Her mother’s voice advised helpfully.) 

She wasn't a good liar and the other part of her life not related to Winchester’s, it was becoming an endless round of hospital visits and worry. No one wanted to hear about that. 

Speaking of worry, her eyes slid from her email box to the Skype app. 

Sam and Dean.

Dean and Sam.

Had the confrontation with Mary happened yet?

If one of them came online should she reach out?

Michele wasn't sure she'd be able to help herself. It hadn’t been a data issue that made her avoid listening to Dean and Sam's voices that afternoon.

Right now, only her Cougar was online. 

Cougar, that had become an interesting friendship, they'd have these conversations 'about their fics' that would start with a message out of the blue, something like, "My Dean’s being an ass again, making Sam's life difficult and Ellis is having a panic attack in the bathroom, thanks to a vision."  
And Michele would smile to herself and reply something like, "you think you've got problems my Dean offered to shoot AU me a few days ago, because he thinks that getting visions of the future means you see everything, and so can be blamed for everything bad that happens.”  
It was almost like having someone to talk with about the bizarre three ring circus that her life was. 

Occasionally though, it was a very uncomfortable fit, not so long ago Cougar had cornered her over not reviewing her latest chapter, then just _kept at her_ , wanting to know what she _didn't like about it_.

How could she explain that Ellis' 'porn cures,' and the way Cougar described certain scenes with such avid physical detail (though it wasn't really her Sam and Dean really) it was just… kind of weird and embarrassing. Or that sometimes reading Supernatural fics gave her flashbacks of Montauk, and the mermaid. Thinking about _that_ had been bad enough without knowing it had happened to people she knew.

She couldn’t say any of that to Cougar, it would sound insane!

And then there was the other stuff, Cougar’s OC Ellis was a psychic, and Cougar had an interest and supposed talent for what Michele dubbed ‘occultic stuff,’ things like astrology and tarot reading, she talked about auras and other ‘new agey type stuff,’ all of which didn’t cohabit well with Michele’s Christian beliefs.  
Of course, saying she’d rather not discuss ‘that stuff’ led to Cougar getting defensive and pointing out that if AU Michele had visions of the future, she was probably a psychic too.  
Cougar couldn't understand why Michele would be so resistant and almost panicked over the idea.  
Besides, she reasoned, if you hate ‘that stuff’ so much, why create your namesake OC to be like that? It didn’t make sense.

Until recently Michele had dealt with her unease over all such occulty type things by discounting it all as ‘frivolous woowoo crap, for floaty minded non-scientific people.’ Now facing the concept that, maybe a certain amount of it did have factual basis, she had admitted her objections came more from the feeling that all such things, just felt ... **_dangerous_** …?

Like something that had the potential to knock her out of precarious balance she had maintained her whole life; the idea of the Supernatural had always repulsed and drawn her in equal measure, but it had the potential to drag her over the edge into an abyss.

Cougar of course, had her pegged as a goody two shoes, sexually repressed, mousey little Christian girl and had made it a bit of a hobby, trying to liberate, educate and enlighten her.   
Michele's husband thought it was hilarious.   
Especially since Michele for her part spent most of their interactions explaining the Christian Faith.  
Neither Cougar nor Michele made a huge amount of headway with the others world view, yet the amicable debate was amusing. 

Michele turned her eyes back to her emails and opened her bible passage for the day, while trying, _yet again_ to work out exactly what to write in reply to The Smartest Kids last _two_ emails.

1 Corinthians 13:1-2, 4-9

 **1** If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. **2** If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing."  
  
The words spoke of the useless nature of prophecy and other powers, oh how she agreed with that.

Love.... hmmm 

**“4** Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. **5** It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. **6** Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. **7** It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.  
**8** Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. **9** For we know in part and we prophesy in part,”

Michele smiled looking at the words, another hideously apt bible quote. Though, she sort-of liked the other version, the one that said love was patient, kind and _long suffering_... love often seemed to involve quite a bit of suffering in her experience. As did Prophecy, come to think of it.

But that was the price you paid...

...ooo0ooo…

Michele jerked out of a light doze several hours later, still lying backwards on her bed, cat curled against her hip and her phone and glasses mashed into her face. 

A Skype call from Dean. 

Rubbing her eyes, she sat up and accepted the call blearily. 

"Mmm, Dean?" She murmured.

"The one and only sweetheart." 

"Hey. You guys ok?"

"Sammy’s sleepin, Sasquatch is a lightweight, always was." Dean informed her laconically. "You're not usually round this timea night."

Michele yawned and rubbed her eyes again. "Mmm hubby's away, fell asleep with my phone logged in. No biggie. How can I help?”

"Woke ya?"

"Mmm. No biggie. What's up, I mean apart from you, surely you should be sleeping."

"Can't sleep." 

Michele frowned, could the stuff with Mary have happened? Or was it juse usual Hunter insomnia. "Want me to read you a bedtime story?" she offered.

"What kinda story?"

"How about the one I was reading the other day?"

"Cat book? Nah 'm not a kid, darlin." 

"Come on, bet you'll enjoy it. Besides you can't say you don't enjoy kid stuff, otherwise how do you know who Dory is, hu?” she teased gently. 

"Was hoping for somethin’ a bit more adult." Dean informed her, his voice rough, Michele realised he'd been drinking. 

"Hmmm, there's a really boring inorganic chemistry textbook on the bookshelf, that's as grown up as it gets, I used to fall asleep in _those_ lectures, it'd probably have us both out like a light in no time."

Dean made a disgusted sound. "That might do it for Sammy, not me. There’s more pleasant ways ta get ta sleep." 

Michele eyed the bookshelf. "Yeah, I was joking about _that_ textbook, probably give you nightmares. Don't want that. What kind of book would you like?" 

"Just wanna hear your voice." There was a ache in Dean’s voice that caught at her heart. “Just talk to me. Love that accent." 

"Love to make fun of it, yeah I know. Be nice boyo,” she replied lightly.

"Oh, it's _fun_ , but I'm not making fun baby. And I want to be nice to you sweetheart, _real nice_." 

A thrill of danger ran through her at the purring undertones in his voice. 

"Dean?" She queried softly, confused.

"Love the way you wrap your mouth round ma name, want ya to wrap your mouth round other partsa me."

Michele's eyes widened in shock. "Fuck! Dean?" 

He rumbled a throaty chuckle "You got it sweetheart."

For a moment Michele froze in horror. Anger and indignation jolted up her spine. _Who the hell did he think she was?!_

"Dean, you _know_ I'm married." She said in a strangled voice.

"He ain't home darlin. Just said. Nothin’ to worry bout there." 

"Come on Dean, stop it, it's not funny... I'm not, I'm not that kind of girl... surely you _know_ that." Tears of anger burned her eyes. 

"You could be, you'd like it."

God, she wanted to slap him, run from him. Why was he trying to hurt her like this? She cared about him, she thought he had started to care a bit to. 

If he wanted sex, why wasn't he at a bar or something, why was he here talking to her? There were a thousand gorgeous women out there who’d _enjoy_ obliging him... She wasn't his type.

Why was he trying to hurt her like this?

Surely, he didn't think she would _want_ _this_.

"Tell me what you want darling, tell me what you _need_." Dean’s husky words broke the silence of her panicked thoughts.

"No, Dean, no. This isn't _you_." She begged; her mind scrambled over everything she knew about this man. None of it made sense. 

"This _is_ me." He spat.

Then in a flash everything did. He was trying to hurt himself, wasn't he? He was hurting and angry, because of what his mother had done and said. And he was using her as a convenient way hurt himself, because he _did_ care. 

Her panic, hurt and anger melted away. 

"No Dean, I love you, I’m not letting you do this. To either of us." 

"Love?" His voice was bitter rasp full of venom, "don't say that. Don't you dare. You women say that, your liars." 

"I'm not lying. I do love you Dean Winchester. But it has nothing to do with sex. I value and care about you."

"Not worth loving like that, 'm shit. Go on, get outta here... "

"I'm not leaving you like this."

"Why not? Mom left, chose them... they fucking _tortured_ Sam and she chose them." The raw pain in his voice tore at her.

"I don't know why she did that, honey. But I'm not her, and her choices are _not_ your fault, **okay**? Mums are people too, they can make just as many bad, crappy decisions."

"Is my fault." He muttered "shoulda made it work, Sam doesn't deserve this..." 

" _Neither_ one of you deserve this. Please believe me, Dean, _please_. I know what she did ... it hurts, but don’t punish yourself for what you feel. You're allowed to feel angry and hurt. But this is on her." 

"My fault she's here, doesn't wanna be. Probably hates us, hates how we turned out. Such a fucking disappointment." 

"Well then she's insane! You saved the world, you and your brother, your **_good_** men. _The best!_ I'd be **_proud_** to have you as my sons." 

"You don't know me." 

She couldn't help it, she laughed, "I've been in your head Dean, **_I’m_** **_your prophet_** , I do know you. I have to write your story; follow you round in these visions. I'm tied to you, whether I like it or not." 

"Don't wanna be here either." 

"The prophet gig isn't why I'm here, why I'm _still_ here after you tried to pull that phone-sex crap on me. I’m here because I see you! I see your goodness, your loyalty, your bravery and strength, _and_ I see your hurt, Dean. I see your brokenness and pain. I learned to love because of all that, even though you’d rather I didn’t, because I’ve _see_ your sacrifices, the way you love Sam, how much you give and how little you get back. And how _you keep trying..._ I see that, I see your worth, and **_I love you,_** and nothing you can say or do will convince me you aren't worthy of that kind of love!”

Dean made a small broken sound which made her wonder if the hard-bitten hunter might be crying. 

The silence stretched. And the distance between them made her ache.

"Damn I wish I could touch you right now." She muttered without thinking.

" _Now,_ you wanna touch me Mitch? Talk about mixed signals." His voice was a flayed wreck, but there was an undercurrent of acceptance and humour.

Michele let out a little groan of exasperation but allowed the humour to lead them both to more solid ground, "I only want to _hug_ you, you giant oversexed, screwed up male. Boy you remind me of my husband at times. Not everything is a come-on. _Seriously_! Why does God insist on punishing me by inflicting you men on me?" She whined.

"I remind you of your husband Huh?" His voice took on a playful speculative tone.

Michele snorted, "Down boy or I'll whack your nose with a rolled-up newspaper. Lie down, close your eyes and be good." 

"Kinky."

Michele smiled despite herself. "Hush," she admonished picking up the Slinky Malinky Cat tales book and began reading.

"Slinky Malinky was blacker than black, a stalking and lurking adventurous cat..."

....

Nearly an hour later, Michele closed the book.

"Mitch?" Dean’s voice was drowsy and mostly asleep, he sounded very young.

"Hush, it's ok Dean, go to sleep, everything is alright.”

He made a small contented sound and his breathing smoothed out again. 


	49. Communication with Pictures

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 49: Communication with Pictures**

Sam woke with a pounding head and a mouth that felt like he'd been breathing desert dust for a year. 

Cracking his eyes hesitantly against the light leaking in from the hallway, he took in the sight of a bottle of Gatorade and foil backed strip of Imitrex sitting by his bedside. Not Advil he noted, his brother the good fairy, had broken out the good stuff; to be honest it felt like he needed it. How much _had_ he drunk last night? 

Most of the previous evening was a blur. Though the catalyst for it was still crystal clear.

After Mom had left the bunker, after they'd told her to leave, while the final slam of the outer door still echoed in his head, Sam had found Dean sitting in his room with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

In lue of discussing previous events, there had been a marathon of action movies on Netflix, and whiskey. 

Sam doubted if either of them took in more than the general motion on screen.

But the silent hours together, bolstered by that line of warmth from his brother’s arm and knee, against his side, had been comforting in a way nothing else could be. 

Dean had shamelessly medicated both of them with alcohol the previous night; and for once, Sam hadn't found it in himself to object against the course of action. 

There was a vague memory, of half surfacing, aware of being sprawled against his brother, and Dean calling him a lightweight, then the intrusion of the T.V’s sound and light had ceased. 

_"So damn sorry Sammy, you don't deserve this."_ His brothers voice rasped, accompanying the hazy memory of Dean manhandling him into bed. He'd been too far gone to respond, to tell his brother the same back. 

The ghost of a memory, Dean’s calloused hand brushing his hair back from his face as he settled into the pillow. One of those moments of tenderness Dean pretty much only allowed when one or other of them was too far gone to respond. 

Sam took a shaky breath, the Gatorade and Imitrix were a sign Dean hadn't been so very far gone at the point he, Sam, had folded under the liquors weight.

So often Dean raced ahead of him, when they hit the bottle together keeping their inebriation rates pretty level. He'd half expected to wake to find Dean sprawled next to him or slumped uncomfortably in a chair close by, his guardian against night terrors. 

But he had woken alone. 

If Dean had deemed himself capable of driving without endangering the impala last night, he could be anywhere.

Kicking himself, Sam dragged upright, and threw back the pills downing the sports drink in hasty gulps. He fought the worry that twisted in his stomach along with the hangovers gift of nausea; wondered uneasily whether he'd be getting a call to bail Dean out of jail... or hospital. 

Too often his brother picked drunken bar fights against ridiculous odds in these circumstances.

Dean had certain go-to moves, none of them were good. He knew that, and yet he'd still allowed himself to be dosed and put to bed like a sick kid instead of being there to have his brother’s back. Stupid, stupid, stupid! 

When the younger Winchester forced his protesting body to surface and found his brother sprawled across his own bed, dead to the world, flat cell phone cradled loosely in a curled fist;

Sam thanked everything holy for small miracles.

Huffing out a small breath of relief, while feeling almost dizzy at seeing Dean, unmarked by any self-destructive coping mechanism greater than alcohol. 

Slipping the phone carefully out of his brother’s lax grasp so he could charge it, Sam stared down at his older brothers sleeping face for a moment longer, memorizing the picture of unguarded peace that would shatter the moment Dean woke. 

_"Please, just let him sleep_." He half prayed silently.

Why had their mother done this to Dean? Didn't she understand how badly her words the previous evening, the choices she had made, would hurt Dean. 

Hurt them both, Sam conceded. Trying not to dwell on his own feeling of abandonment and betrayal, because they seemed paltry compared to what Dean must feel.

It was still unfathomable that Mary had been lying to them and working with the British men of letters _for months_. 

It called so much into question .... If she wanted to hunt so badly, why did she need to leave them to do it? Why were the British men of Letters preferable to the only family she had left? Did his mother blame him for her death? Was that why she couldn't bear to be with them? Had he once again, ruined Dean’s chances of happiness and stolen his mother?

She'd called the British men of letters way a better way, was she right? Were Toni Bevell’s actions the symptom of a deeper disease within the Men of Letters, proof that the organisation couldn't be trusted, or just one woman's insane actions?

Was it simply, that neither he nor Dean could see past what they felt? Was the expected _normal_ response, to suck it up and get over themselves? Sam couldn't tell anymore..... Were they just acting like a couple of pouting children? Did she _really_ think her choices should change nothing? That they _should_ be okay with her working with the British men of Letters?

Where did the failure lie? With them, or their mother? How could she fail to understand their feelings, or were they just _unimportant_ in the grand scheme? Was this _his_ fault, had they failed her? What were they supposed to have said or done, when faced with the revelation?   
What was she thinking now? ....

The list went on endlessly, without any end in sight. The seesaw of flayed emotion, verses attempts at logical thought.

Sam pushed the thoughts away roughly, attempting to take a leaf out of his brother’s book, as he made his way to the bunkers kitchen to start coffee, searching for something else. _Anything_ else to occupy his thoughts. 

Sam opened his laptop and stared listlessly at screen watching it load up, uncertain what he was even doing.   
They were at a dead end on finding Kelly, his hungover brain refused to provide him with any new avenues of inquiry, and the last thing he wanted was to find another hunt.   
But doing nothing just gave him more time to chew over questions with no answers.   
  
His eyes drifted to Skype, was it really only yesterday they'd sent Gavin back?

Opening the Skype conversation with Michele from the previous day Sam scrolled through yesterday's dialog, wanting to touch those light-hearted bantering moments once more, as if he could roll back time. Take away the sour taste of today.   
The fact Michele remembered _their_ version of time was intriguing. As if she was right, that there was something intelligent tying their prophet to them.   
Sam shifted uneasily, feeling guilty, she wasn't _theirs_ , she wasn't some stray animal they'd found on the side of the road and adopted.  
She had a life out there on the other side of the world, a husband and kids.   
Her connection with them was slowly bleeding her dry, but she didn't seem to see that, instead of hating them she .... cared. Even when Dean was trying to be a jerk, _especially_ when Dean was being a jerk.  
His eyes lingered on the written gestures, her calling his brother an adorable brat.

Why couldn't their mother be like that, why did Everything have to be so difficult? 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sam breathed out a small huffing breath from a throat tight with loss and longing, and looked away, feeling guilty and disloyal.  
With a son like him, was it any wonder their mother had chosen the men of letters?

…ooo0ooo…

Michele flicked her eyes to the Skype box.  
She'd been working dutifully on catching up on her emails, for the past hour... well if she was honest, she'd been catching up with her emails as an excuse to keep an eye out for her two lost boys.   
Mostly Sam... she was pretty sure Dean would avoid her for a bit, after the previous night.

She knew Sam was hurting, with the same certainty she knew the sun rose in the morning and set at night. She wanted to help him. Sam would need to talk, yet despite being willing to burn the world and himself for Sam, she doubted Dean was equipped to give his brother that right now.

Seeing Sam log in loosened something inside her chest, but now she found herself dithering uncertain.

Did she really have any right to ask him to share anything with her? Her knowledge of his life was illicitly earned, not freely given.   
Didn't she already invade his life enough?  
Would talking to her even help him?

First of all, do no harm. 

Michele bit her lip tapping her fingers nervously against the mouse wishing desperately to be more certain of what was _right._   
Maybe if she just opened a communication line and felt things out without admitting to what she knew.  
Her eyes came to rest on the replacement webcam her husband had finally bought the previous weekend, but still hadn't gotten around to installing. 

Maybe the best way to start helping Sam was to get him to help her?

...

HobitualPsychick, 2:15PM  
Hey Sam, are you busy?

 **2:15PM  
** **Not really.**

Sam typed back glad of the distraction. 

HobbitualPsychick, 2:16PM  
I don't want to interrupt anything, tell me to bug off if you want ... But.... you're good with tech stuff yes?

HobbitualPsychick, 2:16PM  
Do you think you could ... umm help me set up our new webcam? Please, please please, pretty please.

I'm the world’s biggest tech idiot and hubby's away. Mr 8 really wants to use it to chat to his cousins and play some computer game. -hopeful sad eyes-. Pwease Sammy.

Sam felt a small half smile curve his mouth.  
Wow that was such a _normal_ request, no monsters, no life or death, no end of the world pressure. Helping a friend puzzle through installing a webcam. 

**2:17PM  
** **Sure**

....

It didn't take long; Michele had swapped to voice using her phone a few minutes in.

"Well Sam," Michele said finally, "if the hunter gig ever gets dull,” there was a sarcasm in her tone which declared dull wasn't likely, “you'd be a great Helpdesk guy. Thanks, so much for being patient. _Oh, for goodness sake, will you two just quit it for two minutes!"_ The last part was aimed at the toddler and cat that apparently both needed to be part of every step of the instillation, underfoot and into everything. Sam found himself hoping the cat didn’t eat the webcam cord again before it was used.

"So... uh, did you want to test it?" He asked uncertainly, wondering if she'd ghost on him at the suggestion. He had noticed that video chat was something she'd been avoiding. 

Michele took a small breath like she was bracing herself. "…Of course, we need to test it," she spoke quickly, "you have _no idea_ what sort of wrath I'd face if I told Mr 8 I'd gotten it set up and it didn't work! Autism has no wrath like an 8-year-old promised electronics, then denied."

…ooo0ooo…

Michele rammed down her nerves and clicked the button. Found herself staring at Sam's image on the screen.  
She knew his face so well, but this was weirdly different than the visions.  
The feeling of him looking back was disconcerting.  
Eyes flicking between the small black eye of the webcam and Sam's face she bit her bottom lip nervously.

"So, it works?" She asked, attempting to appear un-phased.

"Yeah... it really does." Sam's voice and face were hesitant, his brow lined with a slight frown. 

"So, ummm, I guess this is Hi from New Zealand."

Sam smiled with a show of dimples and looked down almost shyly. "Hi back from Kansas,” he replied.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam studied the woman on the screen, his eyes tracing the shadows under her eyes and the way the freckles across her nose and cheeks showed in stark relief against too pale skin, the physical signs of blood loss were easy to trace.

She was a couple of years older than Dean, but she looked _very young_ seated there, with her toddler held on her lap like a shield. More vulnerable than she had appeared in photograph she’d sent, maybe it was because he could see her eyes now, they weren’t hidden by the sun darkened lenses of her glasses.

Michele bit her lip and nudged her glasses up her nose, her green eyes seeming to meet his and flinch away. 

"So, it works?" she asked earnestly.

"Yeah... it really does." He assured her, and felt something settle slightly inside, watching his friend on the other side of the world smile shyly back at him.

They talked for a while about nothing much and he watched her relax incrementally, the toddler slipped down from her knee and wandered out of view, the cat leaped up and settled across her knee instead.  
Watching her simply sit and pet the cat was oddly mesmerizing.

"Sam are you okay…. After lastnight?" Michele asked quietly, her voice suddenly very serious and solemn, she frowned and fixing him with wide green kitten eyes that seemed to look into him.

 _Shit!_   
He swallowed uncomfortably, knew what she was doing, had done it himself a million times. Earnest eyes, the soft understanding tone, the silence which begged to be filled.  
 _She knew about Mom._

"You saw?" His voice was small, falling between numb lips. 

_Our prophet_ he thought.

She sighed and a nodded, bit her lip.

 _"Ohhh Sam,"_ she breathed, there was sympathy and kindness in that voice, understanding and most surprisingly a touch of anger, "I'm so sorry, you don't deserve this." He looked up at the screen **_"You don't deserve this."_** she said again fiercely, as if it was the most important thing in the world, that he understood.

He longed to believe her.

"Did... did you see.... Do you uh ... know **_why_**....?" 

Her shaky inhale of breath seemed to whispered over his skin, as he watched a tear track down her cheek.  
 _Was she crying for him?_

"O-h, sweetheart, I _wish_ I could give you answers that would make this better, it's so completely unfair ... All I know is they were her choices, Sam. Neither you or Dean deserve this! And you have every right to feel hurt or betrayed."

"Maybe if we'd ..."

 **"No Sam!"** She said fiercely, in such a ‘Mom voice,’ that it brooked no argument, "don't you dare minimize what you went through with the Men of Letters or turn it around as _another thing_ to feel guilty over.  
You didn’t do anything wrong. I'm sure your Mom has her reasons .... I don't know what they are, and personally, _I don't think they're good enough._ ” There was a protective bite to her voice, “but..." Michele took a breath, steadyingly,  
"…but one thing I _do_ know is, that knowing another person’s reasons for doing something, being logically able to follow those motivations... it doesn't magically make things hurt less, or help you feel less betrayed.   
That takes time.  
So, please Sam, cut yourself some slack okay? You don't have to be strong and reasonable every moment!"

It was strange, hearing those words, someone validating his feelings, it helped take the sting out of things.

"Dean....” he argued, “Amara…. she said Mom was the thing he needed most."

Michele snorted disdainfully, making the cat in her lap startle. “No offended to her royal Darkness, but she _also thought_ Dean would make a nice snack and sucked people's souls out... She might be God’s sister, but both of us have _more_ experience with humanity, than her.... _And_ _I'm_ pretty sure, that what your brother needs most is **_you, Sam Winchester._** The impala _ **…**_ and possibly pie... 

_I mean seriously Sam, if she never mentioned the car and pie, how well could she possibly know him?"_


	50. Not without a fight

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 50: Not without a fight**

HobbitualPsychick, 9:00PM  
Sam, what do you use a silver bullet soaked in holy oil, sage, and myrrh for?

Sam stared at the words in the Skype box for a few minutes uncertain how to answer Michele's question. Finally, he decided on answering a question with a question.

**9:01PM  
Did you have a vision?**

  
HobbitualPsychick, 9:02PM  
Yeah, it wasn't much ... just you saying to someone that they needed holy oil, sage and myrrh, that they needed to make a tincture and coat a silver bullet and then use a spell - which I couldn't read incidentally, because your writing is really messy Sam. You said it would mimic the original etchings...?

  
**9:03PM  
Michele, I don't know why we'd need that ammunition, it doesn't do anything, not without the Colt.**

Sam stared at the words he'd just sent, instantly regretting them. Wondered why he would find himself discussing making ammunition for the Colt in the mid to near future.  
It had been six years since they'd last seen Samuel Colt’s creation.  
Knowing the Colt’s whereabouts could be amazingly useful. But.... discussing that gun with Michele, of all people, felt completely wrong, like he'd accidentally handed a toddler a venomous snake.

  
HobbitualPsychick, 9:05PM  
The colt? Like only 5 things in all of creation it can't kill, the colt?

  
"Shit!" Sam swore with a groan yanking a hand back through his hair, then shook his head feeling irritated with himself for the slip.

  
**9:06PM  
Michele thanks for the heads up about what you saw, but.**

  
HobbitualPsychick, 9:07PM  
Yeah I know, need to know. and I don't need to know.

Sam could almost hear an exasperated sigh behind the typed words, there was probably also a small pout on her face too.  
Funny how spending that time watching her over Skype the previous day filled in his mental picture.

He knew she wanted to know more, had seen it, had also seen her attempts to restrain her curiosity whenever their rambling conversation the day before had brushed against anything to do with hunting.  
Yet he’d seen that little pout, every time he had turned the conversation firmly away to safer ground.

He remembered the frustration, when Dad and Dean had done the same thing to him.  
Their two-man battle to keep little Sammy as ignorant and innocent as possible while submerged in a sea of monsters.

It hadn't worked.

As it turned out he'd only ever been truly innocent for six months, what with the demon blood pumping through him. In a way, he been the thing that let the sea in.

Michele however, she _was_ innocent, kind, and just plain nice and he'd do what he could to keep her out of their sea of supernatural crap. It was what was best for her.

At least she accepted it better than he had as a kid, he'd been a pain in the ass, always picking and digging; knowing there was more and wanting in on the secrets. Chaffing against the restraints Dad had set, going out of his way to find out, until it was too late, and then when Dad had given in and he'd been neck deep... he'd wanted out.

HobbitualPsychick, 9:10PM  
So how are you, really?

He looked at her question and rubbed his palm across his face, he'd almost forgotten this part about women, growing up round guys, the first time he'd really experienced it was at Stanford with Becky Warren ... and then Jess... Girls wanted to know what was happening inside, and 'I’m good' didn’t cut it.

  
**9:11PM  
Still processing, you know. Can't seem to work out how I feel. Mom keeps texting... and I want answers, but I can't bear to read what she's got to say, every time I look at Dean... I'm just in knots. He never had a childhood because of me... I just can't ... this whole thing is my fault.**

HobbitualPsychick, 9:12PM  
Stop blaming yourself for all the things that were _done to you_ , Sam.  
Dean doesn’t blame you for what happened in your childhood, I’m pretty sure he thinks you were the best, aNd only thing he had to hold on to at times, he still does, you have to know that! And he doesn't want you to feel that misplaced guilt— Never darling boy, please, just try to see that.  
You know the sweetest yet most frustrating thing about you two is how selfless you are? You worry about him, he worries about you. Of course, you don't talk about it though, because you're Winchesters.

  
Sam felt his hackles rise a little, wanted to argue that Dean should blame him, then sighed out a breath, maybe she was right...

But ... her talk of selflessness made him think of the thing that came with Michele's visions, and the worry which has moved into the back of his mind. Ever since yesterday, he's been haunted by her too pale face, and a realization that’s sneaked up on him. She matters to him, to them... and she’d looked so small, fragile and breakable, yesterday.

Right now, with the feeling, they may have lost Mom for good, still raw; the thought that his friend might be on borrowed time is unacceptable.

  
**9:14PM  
Michele, don't you think it's time we seriously talked about your visions and the blood loss.**

  
HobbitualPsychick, 9:15PM  
Sam, what's there to talk about?

  
**9:16PM  
Let me talk to Cas, the way you bleed with the visions... it's not sustainable, is it? We need to find some way to fix it.**

  
HobbitualPsychick, 9:17PM  
The transfusions deal with the blood loss Sam. It's fine, really.

Suddenly Sam found himself completely furious with her. Needed her to hear him and understand how serious he was. He punched the button for voice.

"It’s not fine!  
A healthy, fully grown man can die from a nosebleed in two hours, Michele. Come on!"

"I am fully grown Sammy, honestly… I'm just sorta bonsai." She attempted at a weak joke, just like Dean would.

  
It brought out that part of him that needed to rip and tear and hurt, in the effort to be taken seriously; just as Dean so often did. It was almost visceral, how a fear of losing something that mattered, flashed over into harsh words that came spilling out.

"How long will it take for you to bleed to death Huh?  
An hour?  
Half an hour?  
20 minutes?!  
You're worried about some theoretical danger of being abducted by angels, I'm worried about the _very real danger of you bleeding out._  
Come on Michele! You say you love your husband and kids, _then don't fucking die on them!"_

She made a small hurt sound, "Sam... " she began.

Yeah, he knew it was underhanded, it hadn’t taken him long to work her out, the kind of pressure he needed to exert to wound her.  
But she needed to wake up and realize what was happening, wasn’t some game!

"Sam... you make it sound like talking to Castiel will fix me, but it won't." Her voice was apologetic but reasonable, as though he were the one behaving like a kid, it drove him mad as she continued. "Could he fix what Azazel did to you? No... And if I'm a prophet .... do you think there's some magic wand we can wave to de-prophet me?  
I have to believe that I'm not gonna bleed to death, at least not until I've done what God put me here for."

"What God...." Sam found himself spluttering in reply. "Chuck left Michele, he didn't put you here for _anything_."

"You're wrong Sam, God hasn't left, I don't believe that... I... I can't believe that." Her voice was stronger now. "The God I know doesn't cut and run. He _Loves_ us. He hasn't left us alone. Have you ever stopped to think that maybe 'Chuck' isn't all that God is, that God is more? That maybe you've never seen the big picture..."

_Of all the stupid, stubborn…_

"And _you_ have?"

"I have faith Sam. 'Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not yet seen.'" The way she said it, he knew it was a quote.

"Well if you're so sure of there being a bigger picture, a plan, then maybe you oughta trust that the bigger picture involves me finding a way to fix you.  
If you really believe in this ‘bigger than Chuck,’ God, who loves us, tell me how a loving God could expect me to sit by and watch a friend bleed to death without _at least trying?”_

"I'm not dying Sam,” she argued, “ _I'm not."_

 _"You could though_. And I'm not going to let you!” He declared, _“not without a fight._ Without, at least trying.  
I'd rather have you under angelic lock-down than dead. _Your husband and kids would too. You know that right?”_

The silence stretches between them.

"You know what Michele,” he flared, “I'm not asking for your permission anymore. I'm telling you how it's going to be."

Michele took a breath. "Sam," she said his name in a small voice, barely more than a whisper, "I don't ...I don’t want to die, some days I'm… so scared I'm going to... that my kids are going to grow up without a mother like... like you and Dean did..." Her confession was broken and painful. "But what if the only way out of this is for me to die ... or for you both to? I don't, I just don't ... want… _to know_."

Her confession drove the last vestiges of rage from him. Made him feel cruel and heartless, because of course she was scared.  
She was scared they'll let her die... ?

He remembered her words about Kevin and his family that first day, about how disposable she thought she was to them. Michele had probably saved them in Arkansas, didn’t she see, they owed her.

Sam swallowed, wishing he could just do something real to make it better for her, hated the small stifled sound that told him she was probably trying not cry, and likely failing.  
Because of him.

"Hey, hey, hey. That's not going to happen. No one’s going to die, okay? We'll figure it out, we always do... You uh ... _you know that_ …. Because you're our prophet. And uh…you've got that Pulitzer winning piece of literature to write.” That dragged a watery snort of disbelief out of her. “Uh… come on Michele, ‘they all died’ that isn’t your kind of ending, you write sandcastles and sea gulls, you see the light at the end of the tunnel right?…. And I believe … we can fix this. You just need to trust us and let us do what we do best... we save the girl."

Her slightly shaky laugh surprises him. “Wow! So, _I_ get to be _the girl of the week_?” She asked drolly, making him smile in relief. Hopefully he hadn’t pushed her too far, and she seemed to have stopped arguing. Maybe he’d just won the argument.

"By the way, my fic is _so not literature_.” She said after a bit of silence, “I have it on _great authority_ that Supernatural fanfiction is _not literature_.” There was forgiveness and a weary humor in her voice.

…

A ringing sound.

"Oh, that’s my hubby, Sam. I better answer it, or he'll dial 111 and I'll have an ambulance on the doorstep.   
Luv ya, cya. Bye!” She told him breezily.

.....

  
_"Hello, is it me you're looking for_?" Michele's voice sang the words.

"No, damn it! I was trying to call my mistress," a guy’s voice answered her.

"Oh well! If that's the case, I'll go talk with Sam again." Michele parried like the conversation was a familiar game she was enjoying.  
And Sam realized she didn’t know her Skype call was also active. _'_  
So that's her husband,’ he thought, feeling vaguely voyeuristic, but she was talking about him. So, he kept his mouth shut and listened, curious.  
After all, he justified to himself, she spied on him and Dean all the time.

"So how are the transvestite PI and his vegetable hating brother today?"

"Sam’s mostly okay, things with their birth Mum are ... complicated, when someone comes back into their children's lives after more than 30 years, things are going to be rough. She doesn't understand them, and she's made some crappy decisions. But they'll get through it... they're really decent guys and they have each other, same as always." Sam frowned down at his laptop in silence, it was his life, with all the supernatural washed out, summed up by someone with a sympathetic outlook.  
"He's been giving me pep-talks about looking after myself, I mean talk about teaching grandma to suck eggs.... save me from the nagging of menfolk.” 

The guy barked a laugh. "We're just returning the favor, My Love.   
Guy can't be _so_ bad, even if he is a _felon_." The husband’s voice held no real heat for the felon comment, as if it was just a cheap shot along the same lines as the transvestite private investigator, crack. "Hows everyone else? Your fic kids and that stroppy redhead?"

Sam blinked and frowned. He'd always thought Michele would treat him and Dean like a dirty secret. But there she was, talking about them'to her husband, as though they were normal everyday people. That he and Dean had some kind of place in her life.   
It caught him off guard again, the way Michele constantly ascribed a position and value to him, not so much for what he could do in his Hunter capacity, but simply as a person with family issues, an estranged mother and a brother who could do with eating more vegetables.   
Meanwhile Michele’s conversation with her husband had continued.

  
"Your spawn are all fine.” She told her husband. “Madam one and two are actually being helpful, and put their washing away without being nagged.  
Johnny lost his fidget cube at school, but someone found it for him, because he’s blessed. And Mr two and troublesome scammed a walk to the Dairy for a lollipop out of me this morning, because I’m a soft touch for boys with big sad eyes.”

”Ha! I taught him well!” Her husband crowed sounding smug.

  
“Yeah, yeah, anyway, as I said my American boys are getting there… Cat and Peaches, _as always_ , need to get more sleep, but they are young, and not sleeping enough is pretty much, a twenty something’s rite of passage. And Darling Cougar is trying to get me to read one of her racy fics on that other scary website. AO3, again..."

"And you said?"

"That I love her all the way to Bingham-whatsit and back, but no thanks. My hubby is coming home tonight! So why would I want to waste my time _reading about something racy, when I can do it?"_

Her husband laughed dark and intimate, in the way all men understood. "That's my girl!"

Sam cut the Skype call abruptly.

_Hmmm yeah ... umm..._  
He should probably go look for the info on the Colt.  
He wasn't certain he even remembered the spell Bobby and Ruby had devised to replicate the original bullets for The Colt.  
Apparently, he was going to need to write it down sometime soon.  
Sam ran a hand through his hair and went off to find the information.


	51. Calling all Angels; Ok just the one.

**The Thing You Hate**

  
**Chapter 5: Calling all Angels; Ok just the one**

  
Sam closed another book frustrated, the men of letters collection didn't seem to have anything useful on prophets and he still didn't have a clue how to find Kelly Kline, he looked across the library and out to the map table where Dean was cleaning the guns in brooding silence.

It's been two days, but Dean was still avoiding the topic of Mom, and Sam could tell by a million tiny signs that he wasn't in a place where he could go there yet, not without it spilling over into some sort of physical fight.  
Which Sam wouldn't totally mind, occasionally giving and receiving a few bruises were the best thing they could do, to get past things.

 _‘But not this thing,’_ Sam thinks with regret.  
So, he leaves that topic alone for another day.

"Dean?"

His brother made a small sound in the back of his throat to indicate he was listening.

"I've been talking to Michele..." Deans shoulders tensed and he became shock still, like an animal sensing a predator.

"Yeah? What tales has the seer of Hobbitsville got ta tell?" Dean's feigned nonchalance is near perfect, but the set of his shoulders say Dean's still poised in fight or flight mode. Sam saw through it, and wondered why Dean couldn't just admit their New Zealand prophet was growing on him.

"Well, mostly, I told her... that she needs to quit screwing round... and uh, let us ... try fix her." Sam offered.

"Fix her?" Dean looked up with another grunt, raised his eyebrows mockingly and shot Sam a shit eating grin "'bout time you made an appointment with a vet, don't think your pet actually screws round Sammy, but 4 kids ... more than enough!"

Sam looked down at the book on the table, considered lobbing it at his dick of a brother’s head. But the book was old and fragile, so he shot him an unimpressed glare instead.

"Michele would probably say you need neutering more, Dean." Sam was surprised to see his brother flinch, clench his jaw and lift his chin slightly like he'd taken a hit, surely that jibe the first day, didn't still sting?

"Besides having been worked on by a vet ...I don't recommend it..." the last bit, the reminder of Toni Bevell just slipped out, it led places Sam hadn't meant to go.

Dean lips thinned as he completed reassembling the Taurus in his hands with a snap of his wrist. Rapping the gun down onto the map table with more force than necessary.

"—Cas,” Sam offered quickly "said we'd talk to Cas."

Dean picked up his favorite ivory handled, M1911A1, Colt and began disassembling it, without looking up.

"Mitch was down with that?" Dean asked.

He laid the parts out neatly as he worked, exactly how Dad taught them.

"Not exactly... but. She'll get over it. Which is something she won't do if she bleeds out."

Dean chuckled humorlessly "Damn straight!” He picked up the Colt’s slide and began cleaning it meticulously.  
"So, how you gonna play it?" He asked.

Sam ran his palm over the books embossed leather cover. Then looked across the intervening space at his brother. "Preferably without telling Cas too much... or anything, if that's possible."

"Really, Sam?" Dean sounded pretty offended on Cas's behalf. Then, his shoulders loosened, he sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck. "I guess we owe her a bit of …discretion." He allowed, finally, setting the slide back down and picking up the barrel and a cleaning rod.

"Cas isn't dumb though Sam, you start askin’ about the proper care and maintenance of prophets or if there's one hanging out in New Zealand... Well, it's like when you got interested in how to look after a dog, when we we're kids... you only want that info if you've got one stashed in the woods Sammy.  
We can trust Cas, he isn't Dad an' he's not gonna make us take her to the pound. I'm not sure he'd give a damn about a stray prophet in the grand scheme of things —Kelly and Lucifer’s kid, the end of the world, trumps, pretty much ... everything else."

"Yeah, yeah, I know.  
Man, I wish we had some way to track down Kelly or some better information about what we are actually facing with this kid...a ...a Nephilim tablet or something. It makes sense that one exists, right? Pity we can't find it."

"Yeah.... Don't think Mitch’s prophet mojo extends to deciphering stone tablets though Sam... she seems more like Chuck."

"Chuck wasn't a prophet though," then something occurred to him, an amused chuckle broke past his lips "her name ... Michele... it means 'who is like God.'"

"Well, that's ironic.  
How do you even know that Sam?  
Is that what you two kids do? Sit and paint your nails over chat and google the meaning of each other's names." Dean sniggered mockingly.

"I just remember stuff _'Mr Valley'_ or my personal favorite, 'Mr leader of ten men' - you never quite lived up to your potential, Jerk." Sam noticed a pen lying on the desk and fired it at his brother for good measure.

Dean caught it and tossed it back lazily, "Whatever, 'Mr God has heard' - mainly ‘ _cause you never shut up,_ I might add. 'Sides you're enough trouble to be equal to ten dudes Sam."

Sam hummed, tilting his head and smiled at his his brother lopsidedly, “ _you’re not wrong._ ” He admitted.

.....

"This is my voice mail, make your voice... a mail"

At the sound of Cas's gravelly voicemail message, ( _heavens_ _most_ _autistic_ _angel_ ) a half smile twisted his mouth. Cas still had a lot to learn about passing for human.

"Hey Cas, its Sam. Look I was thinking maybe we could take a different tack trying to track down Kelly. If there was an angel tablet and a demon tablet, a leviathan tablet... then... maybe there's a Nephilim tablet out there somewhere...  
So, what I was wondering was ...is there an active prophet out there. If we could track her ...or ...or him down ...maybe they could lead us to this theoretical Nephilim tablet... I know, it's a long shot, but uh any or all info you can give us about prophets or potential prophets, uh ... how they work, well it could be useful. Get back to me when you can, okay? Thanks Cas."

...ooo0ooo...

Sam sat staring at his laptop without truly seeing anything, long fingers restlessly stacking and unstacking the red and black painted map-marker rings like they were poker chips in a high stakes game.

His eyes drifted to his cell phone, another day and another unread message from Mom.  
As time went on from her disclosure, Sam found it harder to hold on to his reasons for refusing to read them. They'd worked with Lucifer to stop Amara for fuckssake, maybe Mom was right about the British men of letters... personal feelings needed to be put aside.  
And he could, he could put aside his feelings ... it was Dean’s feelings that chaffed at him. That was where he floundered...  
Because Amara said Dean needed Mom. But since she had returned, it almost seemed like her purpose was to tear apart and trample any bit of Dean’s self-worth and peace of mind he had left intact by Dad's broken parenting, heaven and hells schemes, Sam's failures and Winchester luck.

Yesterday Dean had cleaned all the guns, sharpened every knife they owned, (including all the ones in the kitchen,) washed every vehicle in the bunker, cleaned out the fridge and scrubbed every surface in the kitchen.

Sam knew the constant activity was Deans way to avoid thinking about Mom. He drank steadily, switching between irritable and surly over pointless things, to over the top devoted helicopter nanny.  
Dean was as usual, trying to act like nothing was bothering him, his constant activity and bipolar moods told another story.

They needed to talk about things with Mom. Find a way to deal with the fallout, together. Whether Dean liked it or not, which, of course he would not.

Sam jumped at the sound of his brother’s footsteps and flipped his cell phone screen down.

"Dead guy in Akron. Body found two days ago. Throat ripped out, ear-to-ear." Dean announced without preamble plunking down his own laptop in front of his brother.

Well, good morning to you, too." Sam offered drolly.

"Read it." Dean ordered, face serious.

Sam nodded with a huff and pulled the laptop towards him. He didn't get far into the Cleveland Globe article before he realized, that what Dean had brought him in no way constituted a case.

"The guy was a-a known drug dealer with enemies. His throat wasn't ripped out. It was slit with a knife. I'm not really sure this is our kind of thing." He informed his brother carefully.

Dean shook his head "We don't know that." Dean argued stubbornly. "His blood could've been drained."  
"It could've been—?" Sam couldn't repress an eye roll.  
"You know what?" The elder Winchester grated irritably. "You find us a case. Cause I need to hit something." Dean slammed his laptop shut in frustration "Now!”  
Sam wiped his lips and shut his own laptop, and here was the opening for the all-important Mom discussion.  
"You wanna talk about it?" He asked.

"Not really." Dean closed his eyes, ran his knuckles across his brow lightly. Sam waited. "What was she thinkin', man?" He asked finally.

"I don't know." Sam took a small breath. "Maybe we should ask her?" He offered meeting his brother’s eyes.  
"What?" Dean flared looking almost stunned by the suggestion.  
"Look I-I’m pissed and – and frustrated and confused, too. But we've frozen her out for days."  
"She lied to us, Sam." Dean stated eyes sparking with outrage.

"I know."

"For months—."

"I know... but it's Mom! I mean, whatever she was doing, she must've had a good reason." Sam entreated.

"A good reason? A good reason for working with those ass clowns?"

"Look, I hear you, all right?" Sam found himself arguing placatingly. "But – but at the end of the day, she's family. We owe it to her to at least –"

"All right, you know what? Screw it. I need a drink." Dean announced grabbing his jacket.  
"You–" Just for once could Dean just face things without running to the nearest bar? Sam sighed heavily.  
"No, I need drinks. Plural."

Apparently not.

Sam glanced at his watch wanting to make a comment on it being too early to start drinking, but rubbed his forehead agitatedly, letting out a small exasperated huff instead.

Dean stopped as if he'd heard every pissed word Sam had repressed.

"And this whole peacemaker shtick that you've been running. First with Cas, now with Mom, it's getting old, man." Dean growled.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam demanded.

"You're always playing the middle, Sam. For once, why don't you pick a side?" Dean clumped up the stairs and out the door without a backwards glance.

He had picked a side!

Stung, Sam watched his brother go. Wondering if Dean had meant to level exactly the same accusation at Sam, that he'd once leveled at Dean. All those years ago. Then, Sam had meant that comment to hurt, to cut his big brother to the bone.

Sam took a few breaths. And yes, it hurt now. But it also reminded Sam of something he'd come to realize only too late, had never said to his brother.  
Dean had been right.

Dean had hated that endless tearing and biting between him and Dad, trying to be Switzerland. But he'd done it, kept the balance and tried to hold the peace, because it had been best for not just the family, but Sam in the long run. Just like Dean hadn't begged Sam not to go to Stanford, because for all that it had cost, Dean had truly believed it was what Sam needed and wanted.

Dean was angry, furious, at Mom for working with the British Men of Letters for two specific reasons. One was for ignoring what Toni Bevell had done to Sam. The other was what had almost happened to Cas, on that job the Brits had set them up on. Because Dean would forgive anything done to him. But not hurting his people.  
Because family was everything to Dean ... But Mom was his people too, their family... So, at the end of the day, just like when Dean was pissed at Cas, they needed to work it out.

Sam picked up his phone, and gazed at the notification that he had 6 unread messages from Mary.

After a moment’s hesitation, he clicked. And ran his eyes over the messages from the past 3 days.

 _3 days ago_  
Sam, please give me a chance to explain.

 _2 days ago_  
Sam?

 _Yesterday_  
Can we please talk

 _Yesterday_  
I'm sorry.

 _3 hours ago_  
Please answer your phone

 _Just Now_  
Sam - we need to meet. It's urgent.

His eyes landed on the last message, wavering indecisive.


	52. V for Vendetta

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 52: V for Vendetta**

****

Sam shifted uneasily in the drivers seat of his SRT8 Dodge Charger, the sleek black vehicle was comfortable and economical, yet Sam couldn't remember the last time he'd actually driven it.  
Dean always referred to it as "your plastic piece of crap," it was the one vehicle in the bunkers garage Dean seemed to actively dislike; though Sam couldn't escape noticing his brother had washed and polished it during his auto-care binge.  
If Sam was honest he didn't really care that much for the car either, save as a small reminder of Bobby, who’d rebuilt it after it had been near totaled by falling angels, instead of leaving it to rust out in the back of the Singer Salvage yard.  
  
This car reminded Sam uncomfortably of the year that he had been soulless.  
A memento of the things he had done during that time, being near it still brought the unnerving sensation of emotional Novocaine and a taste of bile and shame to the back of his throat.

Cars weren't Sam's thing, but he couldn't escape some of Dean rubbing off on him; the impala was the Winchester’s heart and their true home, a carrier of memories, with its Lego bricks stuffed in the air vents, plastic army man wedged in the ashtray and their initials carved in the back.

This car was everything the impala wasn't, it was efficient on gas, modern, (well it had been 6 years ago,) slick, and slightly in-your-face. It wasn't a car that went unnoticed, it drew people's eyes in a way even the impala didn't.

With his soul returned, driving the Dodge Charger always made Sam feel self conscious, and he ended up hunching his shoulders against the pressure of the imagined scrutiny, he ended up with tension knots all along his spine, despite its ergonomically designed seats.

Between the memories this car brought, and his purpose, and destination, Sam felt off balance.  
He'd spent most of the drive debating whether he was making a mistake, and trying to sort through his muddled emotions.

Now he was here, at the address Mary had given him.  
Razor wire and security camera topped chain-link fences plastered with “quarantine” and "danger do not enter," signs every 10 feet, hemmed him in. Black clad security personnel eyed him with flat curiosity from a guard house. And there was his Mother, looking like she was comfortable and part of it all.

When he realized he was driving into the British Men of Letters lair, and not some random abandoned industrial compound, it shot a sick slide of panic down his spine. Suddenly he wished he hadn't come alone, without telling Dean; leaving only an unhelpful note that read, "Went out back later."

With a few quick swipes he enabled the GPS tracking on his phone and slipped it down the side of his seat.

Not that he didn't trust Mom, it was just a precaution.

His mother stood waiting beside the security check point, walked towards him as he stepped out of the car, stopping a few feet away and frowned up at him.

"Thanks for coming."

"What's so urgent?" He asked, hands in pockets, not meeting her eyes.

Mary licked her lips, and tried to catch his gaze, "Sam, I messed up. I know I messed up..."  
  
For a second he gave her the eye contact she was seeking, searched her face, but there was no regret in Mary's green flecked denim blue eyes.  
"…But what the British Men of Letters are doing—“  
  
Sam swallowed and looked away, his eyes burning.  
  
"—this is bigger than us, Sam. We've got a real shot here." Mary told him, her face pleadingly passionate.  
  
Sam took a small breath, shook his head, and shrugged his shoulders helplessly.  
"Shot at what?" He asked, furrowing his brow.  
  
"A world without monsters. A world where you and Dean don't have to hunt, where you can have normal lives."

Once, that would have been all the carrot he needed, his mother and the idea of normal, a dream come true. But that was a long time ago.

He felt his lips pull up in an apologetic smile, more a grimace.  
"I chose this life." He replied, realizing he truly meant it. Huh!.

"I know." Mary looked down, then back at him. "But you were going to school, to college. And I get why you gave it up. But what if you didn't have to? What if there was a different future for you, for us?"

Sam swallowed, maybe it was driving the Dodge Charger again, but his mind flitted to Lisa and Ben, his brother’s year of normal, which his soulless self had crushed under a boot heel.

Sam has long ago given up the idea of becoming a lawyer. He knew that wasn't a dream he wanted anymore... as he‘d told Michele not so long ago, he was good at what he did, and that was what mattered. He found a certain pride in it… But Dean with a family and a kid, not dying bloody... that was something he really wanted. Dean deserved a life one day!

"That's why I'm doing this." Mary continued. "That is what I'm fighting for. I am not trying to recruit you," Mary backed towards the guard house, "but you need to know. Things are changing. Please."

Mary lay her hand on a sensor pad and the gate slid open, Sam found himself following her. "Just let me show you." She said softly.

…ooo0ooo…

  


Sam found himself assessing and sizing up the British men of letters setup, the buildings might be made of stacked shipping containers, but he couldn't deny the air of money, purpose and efficiency

"Wow." He muttered quietly. This is what hunting looked like on a corporate scale, walls of flat screen displays and ergonomically designed office chairs. It was like something out of an action movie.

"Believe it or not, this is just their temporary base. The Brits talk like they're roughing it." Mary informed him casually.

Mick Davies looked up from some report or other and saw them, made a beeline for them.

"Sam Winchester!" the shorter man greeted enthusiastically, looked at Mary. "You didn't tell me your son was stopping by,” he chided.

"Didn't know I had to." Mary answered defensively.  
  
"Anyway, welcome." Mick stuck out his hand, Sam eyed it flinchingly, ignored it and looked away.  
  
Mick folded his fingers back on themselves and let his arm fall to his side.

Mary meanwhile, looked away frowning, as if embarrassed by her son’s uncouth behavior.

"Yeah, um, you know, I really dig the whole low-budget Mission Impossible vibe, but I'm gonna head back." He informed them both, giving them a smile that was just a twitch of his lips, nodded to himself uncomfortably.

"You sure? You're just in time for the briefing.” Mick gave him a disarming smile, tilting his head in a gesture that brought Cas to Sam’s mind.

"Mick." Mary warned.

"I mean, that is, if you wanna hear how we're gonna exterminate every last vampire in America." Mick spoke drolly looking up into Sam's eyes like it was a challenge.

  
....

Sam found himself attending the briefing. Knowledge was power after all.

While he’d made a stand by not taking a seat at the conference table, what he heard of Phase One of Project V: Their mission to exterminate every vampire in America, amazed him.

They had started by focusing on the Midwest. Of the 241 vampires they’d identified, the Men of Letters claimed to have killed all but 11.  
Tomorrow, they were heading to the Morest Motel, in Wichita, Kansas, and wipe out the remaining vampires in the Midwest. Then they intended to start on the rest of America.

Sam could feel himself beginning to understand how Mom could believe the British Men of Letters might be able to achieve their goal of a world without monsters.

…Right up until the point when the British Men of Letters compound had come under attack from a force of vampires, the same force the Men of Letters had blithely intended to wipe out the very next day.

The Men of Letters black clad security detail had been mowed down like a field of wheat before a harvester. If it hadn't been for the three American hunters they wouldn't have even managed to shut and lock all the central compound doors.

…

Sam eyed the bound vampire he had collected in his travels, wondering how much info they could get out of it.

"Doors locked?" Pierce, the other recruited American Hunter demanded.

"For now." Mary answered glaring angrily at the vampire in front of her.

"The rest, they're spreading out, surrounding the building." Anton, one of the Men of Letters techs informed them tensely from in front of a surveillance screen.

"How'd they find us? How'd they even know who we are?" Mick demanded.

The captured vampire laughed. "He told us. He's back to save us all. Our father."  
  
"Your father? The – the Alpha?" Sam asked.  
"No, that's impossible." Serena, another Man, (or woman) of Letters disagreed smoothly in her English accent. "Our Intel has him in – in Morocco. He's been there for at least a decade."  
Sam favored Serena with a look, "Wrong." He told her, "I met him five years ago in Hoople, North Dakota."

Mick turned to meet his eyes in disbelief.

"You're dead. You're a-ll dead." The vampire mocked, laughing— Right up until the point when Mary decapitated him with a sweep of her machete.

The Men of Letters team looked horrified by the dispatch.  
What did these people think the job was? It was blood and killing, not some isolated cerebral plan made in an office far from the action.

Sam ground his fingers across his face feeling weary, wished Dean was there with him.

While it had been almost satisfying to work with his mother, and see her in action. To have evidence that she was a fully capable hunter. He missed Dean’s buoyant levity in the face of action, that ease which came with falling into line behind one of Dean’s madcap, but almost always, genius battle plans. The way they just knew each other.  
"Your, uh, extermination plan, did it have any contingencies for this?" He asked with a sweeping gesture.  
  
"No." Mick replied, almost desperately.

Sam rolled his eyes heavenwards with a huff of exasperation, of course not! They were a bunch of stuffed suits and big brains, not hunters that got their hands dirty.

"Comm's still out. What about a scrying spell? If we can get a message to England –" Serena spoke fearful and rapid.  
Sam rubbed his temples feeling the beginning of a tension headache, his mind flashed to Dean, but he’d left his phone in the car and Dean was over an hour away, at best.

"No, we can't wait for backup."

"No, he's right." Mary agreed. "This place was not built for defense, and those doors will not hold long." Mary covered her eyes trying to think. "Okay... Who here has ever killed —anything?" None of the remaining Men of letters team moved, they simply looked helpless.

Yeah, only us American hunters - fancy that! Sam found himself thinking snarkily.

Mary sighed heavily "Great." She muttered.  
"All right we gotta arm up. Everybody, weapons on the table. Blades, guns, spells..." Sam looked down at the meager offering. "Is this it?"

"Yeah." Mick offered apologetically.

"That's not enough." Mary grated.  
"Most of our weapons are in the Armory, including the AVD." Anton offered, gesturing beyond the locked door.

"We could set it off in the vents. Maximize coverage, use the gas like the bug bomb."

"Will that kill the Alpha?" Mick questioned.

"Kill? Doubt it. Hurt? Maybe. You got anything stronger?" Sam asked, somewhat sarcastically.

Behind Sam’s back Mary and Mick shared a loaded glance.

"Where is it?" Mary demanded suddenly.

....

Mick lifted the metal case onto the table, entered a combination and flicked open the catches.

Lying on a soft piece of moccasin, was The Colt.  
For a second, it was like the universe fractured and reformed around Sam.

He'd been told. Michele had warned him and now here it lay.  
He exhaled sharply.  
Being warned did not lessen the emotional impact of seeing the gun, tied to so many jagged memories.

He reached out and pulled it from the case, mouth working soundlessly. Exhaled again, reining himself in.  
"Where'd you get this?" He demanded, turning to Mick for explanation. Mick opened his mouth to answer.  
"I stole it." Mary cut in.

Sam turned, wide eyes finding his mother’s face.

"From Ramiel." She finished.

Sam felt himself rock towards his mother in shock.  
Begging for her to somehow take it back. This was the thing Ramiel had been talking about them stealing?!

It was like a kick in the guts, white noise filled his head as the implications of those words swept in, threatened to drown him.

  
"Yeah, but it doesn't work. We've no bullets." Mick cut in, bringing Sam roughly back to the situation at hand.

He took another breath, nodding to himself; as he pushed the emotion, from this, newest, old betrayal away.

"Right. Right." He dragged in a breath through a nose that seemed stuffed with a little boy’s tears.  
  
"—Right," his eyes danced back and forth. “Um, Okay! We make some, then." Sam snatched up a pad and scrawled down the spell. "Got the recipe from my buddy." He informed them.

"Bobby Singer?" Mary asked.  
  
"Yep." He answered her shortly.  
"All right, Mick, you're gonna need holy oil, sage, and myrrh. Do you have that here?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, uh, make a tincture, coat a silver bullet. Use this spell… It'll mimic the original etchings." It was a moment of second-hand Deja vu, like he was reading a script.

His eyes flicked down to the pad in his hands as he passed it to Mick and felt a small pull of humor, because Michele had been right, his writing was messy.  
  
"And that'll work?" Mick asked.  
  
"It better. If not, start praying, 'cause we'll need a miracle." He spoke the words almost as an offering to Michele's bigger than Chuck God.

"Where's the Armory?"  
  
"I'll take you."  
  
"I got your back." Pierce offered  
  
"Get to work. And keep that door locked." Sam threw over his shoulder as they left.

…ooo0ooo…

At the end of it all, as Sam followed the impala home to the bunker in his ‘plastic piece of crap car,’ which the vampires seemed to have approved of as much as Dean did, and expressed it by keying all along one side.  
When he thought about events, with his over tax brain churning uselessly, Sam found himself unable to trace the trajectory of events with any clarity.

Mary had stolen the Colt from Ramiel, which had nearly brought about Cas's death. She had held onto it and given it to the Men of Letters, without telling them.

But...without the Colt, they probably would have all died today.

Michele has seen enough, gotten him to refresh his memory of the spell which forged the Colt’s ammunition; without which... they would have died today.

Pierce, an American hunter, had been working for the Alpha vampire, had knocked Mom out and let the Alpha into the command center, betrayed everyone; which brought to mind Toni Bevell's questions and accusations, like the stab of broken ribs. It made him feel guilty by association. Muddied the waters further.

The dance of diversion he, Mick and Mom had played to get a bullet into the Colt and consequentially into the Alphas Vampire’s head, it had been a miracle that it had worked. But it had.

Then, the surprise of seeing Dean and Ketch screech into the British Men of Letters compound, together.  
The surprise Dean had showed, seeing Sam there.  
  
Dean’s admission that, when he knew Mary was in danger, nothing else had mattered.  
Something which made Sam simultaneously relieved, hopeful.... and almost jealous.  
  
Sam had agreed to work with the British Men of Letters, without discussing it with or telling Dean; told himself at the end of the day the Alpha Vampire was dead, and they were changing the world. That maybe, he could let himself believe, a world without monsters might be possible.  
He’d asked Mick to give him time to get Dean on board, then realized he was doing exactly what their Mother had done...  
Right now, thinking about it all was over-rated, all he wanted was a hot shower, some food and to sleep for about 12 hours.

Tomorrow was another day.


	53. The other Hobbit and Lies

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 53: The Other Hobbit and Lies**

"I'm going to assume that Hobbits and lying to your brother are linked in your head."

"Uh?" Sam replied inelegantly, feeling edgy.

Michele raised an eyebrow looking directly at her webcam on the other side of the world, "Frodo?" She enquired mildly.

Ah, so she knew about Mick Davies and the Men of Letters. She might be right about the psychology behind the code name he'd used too.

Psychology, cause and effect, Michele had a real thing for it, said having an autistic kid made her spend half her life trying to work out the why of what set the boy off, decode it for next time.

Sam huffed a breath. "Your point being?"

Michele bit her lip and looked down uncomfortably. "Sam I don't know how to put this, I'm not ...I'm not speaking as a prophet, or whatever... I'm speaking as..." she sighed, looking uncertain and shook her head. "Sam, lying to Dean... Especially now. About working with ... _them ... come on!_ Surely you can see the kind of damage it will cause if, or more likely _when_ he finds out."

"You had a vision?"

"No Sam, not of Dean finding out, just of you agreeing to work with—" she pulled a face, "Frodo... All I'm saying is ... That it's better to confess your treasons, than to get caught in the middle of them.  
You and I both know Dean’s not dumb, he'll find out eventually. The longer it goes on... _the worse the fallout will be."_

"And if I don't tell him, _you will, is that it?_ " He demanded resentfully.

Michele blew out a long breath which ruffled her bangs, and muttered something under her breath.

"I didn't catch that."

"I said ' _you know nothing Jon Snow'_."

"Meaning?" His voice had taken a hard, flat tone, he saw her flinch.

"I always took it to mean 'I love you, but you're an idiot.'" She smiled a rueful smile at him. "Sam you're a very smart guy, but you're also dumb, I'm only putting my two cents in because I’m worried about Dean finding out, _instead of you telling him._ Because the guy doesn’t need any more betrayals just now.”

Sam sighed, studying the earnest face on the screen, he knew she was trying to help; _she was always trying to help._  
It was exhausting dealing with someone so optimistic, bright and shiny.  
Sometimes he just wanted to pick her up and shake her, yell at her, or slap her around a bit, until she understood the darkness in the world —and in him.

She should hate him, there were no happy endings and that God has left the building.

Other times he wants to buy a time-share in her head. And let himself believe in everything she said.

It was so much easier before the fucking webcam.

He wished she'd stop looking at him like that, with those big earnest eyes that said, _'I know you want to do the right thing.'_ Wished she'd quit trying to be his own personal Jiminy Cricket.

Instead he changed the subject.

"You watch Game of Thrones?"

"Yes, ... but I actually read the books, before HBO made it trendy. I'm still waiting for George R.R Martin to quit attending conventions, making political statements and generally mucking round and... you know ...get on and write 'Winds of Winter.' What Martin needs is a dose of what I've got. _Writers deadlines with consequence_..." Michele stopped and scrubbed her fingers restlessly against her lips like, she regretted her words. "Not that I'd really wish this on anyone,” she added quickly.

  
And there it was. _That look,_ the one that Sam still couldn't quite decipher.  
It makes him aware that while she’s good at decoding him, knows chunks of his past from reading Chucks books, sees bits of his future, is always just sort of there. He doesn't know this woman— oh, he knows lots of _information_ about her... but it's not the same thing! She feels comfortable and familiar, but he doesn’t know what motivates and drives her, what way she’d jump under pressure. 

"I guess I don't really know you, do I?"

"You don't?" She looked perplexed, scrunching up her freckled nose and tilted her head in thought.  
"…I guess, no one really knows someone else completely Sam, that's the tragedy of the Tower of Babel." Her fingers slid to her throat, played with the cross, wedding and engagement rings strung on the fine silver chain around her neck, they jingled softly and Sam found himself wondering what she meant, by ‘the tragedy of the Tower of Babel’, he opened his mouth to ask.

"God knows us though." She said the four words like she's offering him something, her smile hopeful.

Sam shut his mouth, and tried to remember if it was true, had Chuck really know him?

"I don't know if you're right Michele,” he found himself answering carefully, (he always tried to be careful with her over the God stuff,) “but He _does_ make really good pancakes." He ventured, giving her an ill-fitting smile by way of return.

There was a rap on his bedroom door.

"Hey Sam..." Dean walked into the room without an invite and stopped.

  
"She's got a webcam?" The way Dean’s voice rose at the end of the sentence made Sam feel sort of smug.

With the thought he was grateful for the interruption, Sam pushed his chair back from the desk and glanced at his brother, noting how Dean’s face had become carefully impassive.

“Yeah, she got it what? A week and a half ago?” He glanced back to the screen for confirmation.

Michele nodded and sat up straighter, swallowing like she was nervous.  
“About that, the day after your Mom told you about working…” she trailed off “You’ve been avoiding me since, Dean…” she looked to one side with a little frown.

“Haven’t been avoiding you Mitch, just didn’t think you wantedta talkta me… things considered.” Dean sat down on the corner of Sam’s bed. “So, what’re you two crazy kids talkin’ about?”

“Game of Thrones, whether anyone can know anyone else. And Chucks pancakes.” Sam supplied.

Dean grunted. “ _You_ watch Game of Thrones Mitch? Isn’t that a bit hard core for you?”

Michele made a small amused sound.

“She read the books too, Dean.”

“So, you’re a geek like Sam? Did you spend all of last season bitching how, ‘that’s not what happened in the book’?”

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother, “I said it like four times, Dean.”

Michele laughed, flicking her dark hair back over a shoulder, “I don’t know if I bitched per say, but I probably said it a heck of a lot more than four times. _Quit picking on your brother Dean.”_

Suddenly, Dean was off the bed, leaning over his shoulder, looking at the laptop screen intently.

“Ha! Is that a hickey on your neck Mitch?” Dean crowed, in the exact same tone he used on Sam during their teenaged years.

Spots of hectic colour rouged Michele’s cheeks as she dropped her face and hunched in on herself.

“Dean!” Sam tipped the chair back so it hit his brother in the solar plex.

At that Michele straightened up, lifted her chin, and looked directly into the webcam. “Sam, it’s okay,” she favoured them with a smile that showed a flash of her sharp little teeth. Catlike.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles.  
Yes, Dean, _it’s a hickey._ This might surprise you, but married people have sex. Lots of sex, probably more sex than you do. I like sex, I think sex is fun, sometimes it’s also sorta humorous too. For me sex is not cheap, or a spectator sport. It’s something precious that belongs to me and my husband.  
I’m no fashion model but I don’t have to get anyone drunk or lie to them to get laid. All I have to do… is look at my husband too long— or something. That’s his story.” Michele smiled a private smile not aimed at either Winchester. “We’ve been married for 11 years, raised 4 kids together, and I’ll be the first to admit I’m not Miss Universe. But my husband still wants me, he’s not just going through the motions or just doing his duty. Sometimes he gets a little over enthusiastic, which is sorta… embarrassing …. But I’m also sort of proud...” She touched her neck. “ _Hickeys are kinda trampy though_ ,” she muttered with an eye roll and a shrug.

Sam looked round at his brother, Dean’s face was priceless.

Sam snorted, which drew his brother’s gaze, the look on Dean’s face submerged without a ripple.

Deans lips twitched slightly, eyebrow rising fractionally. It was the look that said, “ _Could have warned me what I was getting into there, Sam.”_

He answered with a micro-shrug that replied, “ _Hey I’m sure I have warned you, you don’t take advice and do stupid shit, so you’re on your own bro, I don’t want a piece of that.”_

A small lift of Deans chin “ _Thanks for nothing, Bitch.”_

“Speaking of marriage did Sammy tell you about our last case?” Dean asked, fingers gripping Sam’s shoulder vicelike for a moment before he returned to his previous place on the bed.

Ahh here comes pay back.

“Not really, just that it was a cursed object. I didn’t have any visions, so I assume you managed to stay out of trouble.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Dean sniggered. “Sammy, Mr smooth got caught under the brides’ skirt at the reception and the grandmother of the bride hit him with her handbag.” Dean crowed.

Sam sighed. He didn’t want to talk about cases with Michele, he didn’t need to discuss that case with her. But of course Dean would make it sound like he was some kind of pervert. If he let Dean tell it… Yeah… not a good idea.

“It was a cursed blue garter.” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and huffed long sufferingly, “something old, something blue and something borrowed… Catholic family with lots of daughters and nieces getting married, they were handing the thing round. Must have been in the family for generations.  
It uhh caused some guys who caught it to do something unpleasant to themselves.”

“ _Balls Sam_ , it caused the guys who touched it to cut off their _balls_.”

“Thanks Dean, I’m sure Michele didn’t need _those_ details. And it wasn’t all the guys that caught the garter. Rowena said the spell was quite popular once, designed to affect only, ‘men of ill repute,’ on direct skin contact.”

“Fricking witches.” Dean muttered darkly.

“That was—“ Michele bit her lip, looking like she was in pain. “Brave Sam…”

“Brave Mitch?! He ran from grandma like a _scared little girl.”_ Dean mocked.

“Occasionally ‘retreat is the better part of valour.’” She answered serenely, “For both of you. He got the job done didn’t he, Dean? Made sure no ‘men of íll repute’ touched it. _I’m not wrong, am I?_ ….” Michele smirked, and the words ‘especially you’ went unspoken, but not unheard. “Sam was brave to do it, and you were smart not to. And I’m glad you’re both back in one piece.”

“So that’s the story of our stint as wedding crashers…” Sam frowned unhappily, “your wedding is supposed to be the happiest day of your life, isn’t it? I ruined…”

“Sam,” Michele laughed, “ _lighten up!_ For my wedding, one of my soon to be step-daughters gave me an early wedding gift …a dose of stomach flu, I woke up the day of with a migraine, spent the service feeling like crap and can barely remember it truth be told... Then when I entered the restaurant for the reception. I vomited all over the floor… _In front of everyone_ … Management of the restaurant wanted to kick me out of my own wedding reception citing public health issues.  
We’ve got this great photo of one of my best friends mopping up the puke… its epic, and mortifying.  
Quite a few of the guests decided they were attending a shotgun wedding. Which was—” She snorted and rolled her eyes, “since I was proud of how I would have made a good dragon snack. True love waits and all that.”  
Dean made a sound and Michele pouted. “Don’t say it Dean!” Then she shook her head and seemed to dismiss Dean entirely.  
“Sam, for me, our wedding reception was an exercise in smiling grimly and not puking.  
We got a red bowl, as a wedding gift from one of our friends, it went on honeymoon with us, we designated it as the family puke bowl the moment we opened it. For obvious reasons.  
Our wedding night was hot… mostly because I was running a really high fever.  
Three days later hubby came down with it too… We promised in sickness and in health… and we really followed through! If _that_ was supposed to be the happiest day of my life I’d have been really screwed, Sam…  
But you know what? Our wedding was _just one day_ …and for some reason our kids love hearing that story, probably cos it involves puke. Kids love puke stories.  
Looking back on it now …it’s ironic and kinda funny. When things start like that, there’s nowhere to go but up.  
One day that couple will probably have kids, and I bet the story of the handsome tall man no one knew, stealing mummy’s garter at the wedding reception, and great grandma chasing him and whacking him with her purse will be a favorite family story as well.”

An alarm went off.

“And that my American friends is the alarm, telling me I gotta go drag one boy out of bed and toss him in the car, so I can go and fetch the other boy from school.  
As my Dad always says ‘Be good, and if you can’t be good, be careful’.”

With that Michele was gone again.


	54. Sparking on All Cylinders

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 54: Sparking on All Cylinders?**

Michele lay on the hospital bed, starring morosely at the vermillion line of tubing that led to the IV buried in the crook of her right elbow from the bag of blood suspended above the bed. The inside of her left arm was a mess - all the needles and injections (taking blood out to see if it was time to put blood in, clotting factors, infusions of erythropoietin to encourage her body to make more red blood cells ( _'there go my chances of winning tour de France')_ blood for cross matches, and of course the top up transfusions that were getting to be pretty much a regular thing.) 

The inside of her left arm looked like it belonged to a hardcore druggie.

Now, they'd moved on to her right, begun the process of evening her up. 

These days she wore long sleeves to hide the needle marks and bruises that marked up her skin, to avoid the _looks._ Judgement or pity, from people who thought they knew her story.

But hey, long sleeves weren't so much of an issue because she was **_always_** **_cold_** _,_ really it wasn't worth whinging about. She tried to find acceptance, tried to be a good sport ... 

Michele turned her eyes away and stared at the wall as the nurse bustled in, put a thermometer in her ear again, took her blood pressure again, and bustled out. Again. 

Today she wasn't in the mood for the usual pointless social noises, or the lies of omission. Today there was a resentful insane part of her that might just say things she'd regret.

She could just imagine it. Answering the glances which asked. 

' _Hey why do you need this blood anyway?'_

With something like 

_'Well, there's no scientific backing for it, but I seem to have been drafted as the prophetic biographer for a couple of monster hunters on the other side of the world._

_Unexplained side effect may include, visual disturbances, blood loss, blinding migraines, the worry that I’m totally insane and the knowledge that monsters exist. Not to mention the guilt that I'm sort of living a lie.'_

Michele imagined the nurse responding with droll acceptance and saying something like,

_'That's nice dear, is the pay good?'_

Replying with a snarky tired.

_'No, it bloody well isn't, (get it bloody?) You'd think I'd at least get an inside line on some lotto numbers for my trouble._

_But no-o! Could be worse though, you think my deal’s bad, you should see the poor saps I'm biographing for.'_

—Yeah nah, better to stare at the wall in silence, and brood about how she'd ended up being catty to Dean, _again,_ the previous afternoon. 

He brought out the worst in her, that was for sure. Afterwards she regretted it. Because underneath all his brash, cocky, in your face arrogance, there was someone softer and younger, that he hid... she’d seen that someone the night after his mother’s betrayal, and through his little brother’s eyes.

Dean Winchester was a paradox. 

And sometimes he gave himself away.

_"Haven’t been avoidin' you Mitch, just didn’t think you wantedta talkta me… things considered.”_

_Oh Dean!_

She didn't know which way to turn with Dean.... it was like he knew just how to press all her bitch buttons, and make her see red, he seemed to enjoy doing it as well.

She couldn’t help wondering if he was mocking her, like those times a cute, popular boy paid her sudden attention at school, thinking she’d fall all over herself to give him _everything_ he wanted. 

It made her feel defensive, on edge and backed into a corner.

Dean _was_ attractive and charming, when he wanted to be, so she understood what all those other women saw when they fell into his bed, and maybe that was the problem, Dean was intimidatingly attractive.

Guys like that found it easy to treat plain or even really attractive women like they were as interchangeable and disposable as paper cups... another would come around soon enough to take the last’s place.

It annoyed her. Guys behaved like that because _women_ let them.

She might not be a ‘10’ on any guy rating system of hotness, but that didn’t give anyone the right to mock, dismiss or devalue her. Maybe that was what turned her into a bitch, shoved her into fight or flight mode, where she seemed to always chose fight, much to her shame.

Yet for all that she found she _did_ like Dean, not because he was attractive and smooth, but for his selflessness and dedication to saving people from the things that had hurt his family, she knew most of his obnoxiousness and smarminess was just deflection and acting out. She couldn’t help but see the echoes of a scared little boy responding to trauma, pretending he was rougher and tougher than he was, trying to protect his injured fragile core. It made her wish she could somehow heal his childhood hurts. But she wasn’t going to let the empathic, maternal instinct lead her to a place he could take advantage of it, that wouldn’t help either of them.

So there was always that friction, and she became a person she usually reserved for evil school principals or people that hurt her kids. 

Talking with Sam was easier, he was attractive too, but he didn’t trade on it, and he didn’t take liberties or tease her.

She knew what was expected and where she was going with Sam.

Even when he got defensive. (She knew she'd pushed it with him the previous day. _Lecturing a Winchester on lying, it was a like lecturing a fish on drinking too much water_.)

But for the most part, things with Sam were logical and reasonable - comfortable even.

Sam could be pushy, but in a way, she understood, besides she got pushy too. The situation wasn't normal or comfortable for either of them. But there was an equilibrium, she never felt the need to try to slice into Sam with words to stop him overwhelming her.

Maybe it was because she shadowed and saw Sam more.

Sometimes it felt like Sam's thoughts and feelings were rubbing off on her like ink from old newspaper. Which also muddied things with Dean, because Sam loved and needed his brother fiercely, but Dean _also_ drove him nuts at times.

Because they were brothers.

All that pseudo knowledge and experience, the visions forced her to be part of, and write, it had become impossible to separate from it fully.

Speaking of, maybe it was time she read back over her fic again.

There was a chance reading, "The Thing You Hate" or looking at some of her reviewer’s comments might help give her some clarity; maybe it would help her get her head straight and work out what the point of all of it was. 

_God had to have a reason, didn't He?_

She wasn't sure she could bare it, seeing everything and it being pointless, random chance, no bigger plan or reason for it all.

Michele shook her head. It wasn’t like she had a choice. This was her life.

Navigating her phone left-handed, while nailed down by the IV line buried in her right, was irritating. But it was better than staring at the wall wishing she could take back yesterday's words or thinking too much about what was happening to her.

Or how it would probably end.

…ooo0ooo…

"Sam, I received your voice mail message. To answer your question there are no active prophets in existence at this time. 

With the presumed death of Donatello Redfields at the hands of Amara, there remain no viable candidates to take up the mantle of Prophet of The Lord." 

Sam held the cell phone to his ear grimly, feeling coldness settle in his bones as Castiel’s gravelly voice continued, "while there is every probability that this Nephilim tablet you hypothesis exists, we have no means to locate it, furthermore without a prophet to translate it... such a tablet would be of no practical use." 

"You're certain there aren't _any_ uh possible prophets out there Cas’... Anywhere? Not even hidden away on some obscure island. One that’s ... been... uh, missed?" Sam asked hopefully.

"I am sorry Sam. There are no viable prophets alive at this time." The angel spoke firmly. "I have told you before. Every prophet’s name is seared into my brain. Prophets are not just born by random chance, they are bred. Bloodlines that stretch back to Adam and Eve, the unions which create them are carefully managed by the servants of Heaven." 

"Oh... well, um ... thanks anyway Cas.

I guess it's back to old fashioned detective work. Do _you_ have any new leads? " 

"No new leads. Kelly Kline continues to prove elusive. Carrying a nephilim, apparently nullifies usual detection methods. In both cases you are correct, detective work appears to be the most efficacious course of action. There are a few other possible leads I intend to follow up, I believe the money she withdrew in her previous banking transaction will be exhausted soon.

Lack of funds must force her to surface, it is only a matter of time." 

"Yeah, thanks Cas, stay in touch okay?" The phone went dead in his ear.

So, if Michele wasn't a prophet, what exactly was she?

Sam sat staring into space for a long time, trying to gather his thoughts.

He should get himself together, start the day.

He could smell coffee, had been hearing faint domestic sounds that told him Dean was up and active.

Probably in the kitchen making breakfast. 

He should tell Dean.

…ooo0ooo…

"An' Cas was sure?" Dean asked.

Leaving his plate, Sam’s brother pushed back his chair and ambled to the bar fridge, grey men of letters robe over sleep t-shirt and boxers, socked feet silent on the floor.

For some reason, Sam found himself cataloging his brother in that moment.

Dean looked almost sad as he returned, eyes dark and hooded.

He opened two beers and slid one in front of Sam. 

Sam eyed it dubiously. Beer and pancakes, the breakfast of champions. 

"He reminded me every prophets name is seared into his brain. That they're bred specifically, and don't just happen. _‘I am sorry Sam. There are no viable prophets alive at this time.’”_ He mimicked Cas's voice and gestured expansively, watched his own hands fly up in a helpless gesture like a flock of startled birds.

Sam realized, belatedly, and unhappily, that he'd _just assumed_ Cas would give him confirmation that Michele was a prophet. 

Now, he felt unaccountably betrayed.

Giving in, he took several deep swallows of beer, feeling the cold autumnal bitterness slide down his throat to settle in his stomach like ballast. 

Dean raised his own beer in salute and stuffed a huge forkful of pancakes and bacon into his mouth. Chewed, in that disgusting, mouth partially open way he did, when he's really enjoying his food, comfortable, thinking about other things, or trying to get a rise out of someone. 

"So, scratch prophet off the list, what's left?"

"One of Azazel’s Special kids, a garden variety psychic ... seer, oracle ... uh maybe even someone like Cassandra, Tiresias or Mopsus for all we know Dean, the list is pretty endless." 

"Guess she could be a whore too Sammy." 

Sam banged his beer down on the table frustrated. “ _Dean, what is it with you, her, and each other's sex lives. Give it a rest!_ " He flared.

Dean eyed him from across the table, put his fork down on his plate, carefully. "Whore of Babylon, Sammy." He said with surprising gentleness and sighed. "Remember Leah Gideon? She was a _false prophet_... A whore of Babylon. I don' wanna think it any more than you do buddy, I don' wanna say it to you either. But I'm gonna. How much do we actually know about your hobbit foreign correspondent, buddy? Samwise Gamgees Mom, she's all …small, cute and fuzzy, has a killer accent and gives us tomorrow's news today, we've told ourselves she's mostly harmless. But we _don't_ _know_ _that_.  
Next time Cas comes back, we needta get him in the loop.   
Stop this bullshit, introduce them, if she's not a prophet and she _is_ harmless there's no reason for her to be all coy. Let’s get all the cards on the table, work this thing out. Okay Sammy?" 

Sam huffed a breath. "Yeah… okay Dean."

…ooo0ooo…

Michele stared at her phone screen, breath coming rapid and rough between suddenly dry lips.

Her eyes snared again on the last paragraph of Chapter 43 of her fic.

**_“The pain written on her friend’s face and the amount of blood were troubling... but what really made Karen uneasy was that for a second, before Michele's eyes had closed in pain, she could have sworn she’d seen sparks of light flare in her green eyes.”_ **

Michele couldn’t remember writing the words, all she could remember about publishing that particular chapter was the bloody battle of wills she’d waged with her unseen tormentor … over using Karen’s real name and the actual name of the girls home in that chapter.

The pain she’d been in and the amount of blood she lost, before she’d caved.

Michele found she was shivering, her pulse drumming in her ears

**_Sparks of light?!_ **

She was pretty sure none of Carver Edlund’s (Chuck’s) books had mentioned that as a prophet thing.

_“What am I?”_

_“Am I even human?”_

She needed to talk to Sam, he’d help her figure it out, he wanted to help fix her didn’t he? It would be okay…

Then a catalog of words and the memories filled her mind

Sam’s musing tone the day before took on a new weight

_"I guess I don't really know you, do I?"_

The memory of Deans voice, harsh and cruel rose up, making her flinch.

 _“_ _Sam thinks you're sooo nice and innocent, but I've got your number, bitch. Your loyalties lie with the yellow eyed freaks that gave you your freak powers, don’t they? Admit it!_ ”

_“Cas is worth a million of you! If you weren't so far away, I'd put a bullet between your eyes. Don’t think I’m gonna let you lead Sammy down the garden path, I’ll find a way to end you, long before that.”_

The voice in the dark

_“_ _I mean... think about it..... They kill your kind. It’s in their blood. And you know... you know... it’s only a matter of time before they come.. for y-ou."_

She became uncertain. Imagined cowering with a gun to her head.

_No Dean, I promise I’m not like that… I don’t want to be a monster or a glowing eyed thing._

_I don’t want to be …_

_...but what if I am?_

Her eyes followed the IV line up to the bag of blood.

_What’s so very different between me and a vampire anyway?_


	55. Cinderella’s step... brother

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 55: Cinderella’s step... brother**

"I can't believe the bitch bled in my shoe. In it, Sam! Wraith goobies in my boot. How do I even clean that?"

"Maybe you should just get new boots," Sam muttered with an eye roll, looking up from the tablet, then back down again...

A load of missing pets, a string of grave desecration's, a chewed-up half eaten embalmed body of an old woman, that turned up a mile from the cemetery it’d been buried in, and now an attempted child abduction (the police report stated the boy swore up and down it was his grandmother ... who'd been dead for a month.) Mick Davies' email and the attached links outlined the case a few towns over.  
  
"... They're my favorite boots Sam, worn in just right." Dean continued to whine from the impala’s driver’s seat, "I'm not tossing my favorite boots cause of that predatory skank. I hope somethin' in purgatory rips her a new one when she reaches that next bus stop. A man’s boots are sacred, you don't mess with a man’s boots. There’s gotta be a good way t' clean em... do something useful with that tablet, and Google it Bitch."

"Thought shoes were a female obsession, Dean." Sam answered his brother, with deceptive mildness, glanced across to watch Dean’s mouth clamp shut. "—Besides a silver bullet _could_ have done the job, I'm sure of it. If you'd just _stepped back and let me take the shot."_

"Neither one of us were exactly seeing straight right then, Sammy."

"Yeah, but _I told you before we got there,_ I wanted to see..."  
  
_(whether Mick was right, whether th Men of Letters way is better, whether there are ways to do this where we don't risk so much, a sniper’s rifle loaded with silver bullets perhaps.)_

"This job is _not_ a science project Sam, ventilation with a silver blade's tried an' true. Bitch is dead, case’s closed." Dean cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"I'm _just saying Dean_ , if you'd stepped back and let me take the shot, one of your favorite boots might not be filled with wraith blood. Then you wouldn't squelch when you walk ... and be _whining_ at me about it."

"You wanna talk about _shoes_ Sam? At least I kept both my shoes on m’ feet Cinderella, and I didn't needta give my brother puppy eyes til he fetched it... From a frickin’ _sewer drain."_

"That was _years ago,_ and I was _cursed_. Seriously Dean?!" Sam huffed, "…We need to take a left up here."

"No, we don't Sam, I know m’ way home."

"We aren't going home, not yet. There's a case next town over."

"Really?" Dean shot his brother a surprisingly happy grin, all white teeth and enthusiasm. Last case, gore filled shoe, everything else forgotten, " _Awesome_! What you got?"

"My guess, is it's a ghoul that's off the reservation." Sam paused for a moment, "looks like there's a chance it's decided to move onto ... uh live-er... younger prey."

Sam explained what he’d guessed of the case, and watched the enthusiasm drop from his older brothers face tow be replaced by clenched jawed anger.

"So, you think ghoul munches grandmas at the all you can eat cemetery buffet then decided to get some live takeout.  
Becomes grandma an' stakes out this kid, Jamie's school.  
Does the whole, ' _Mommy asked me to pick you up'_ routine. Kid almost falls for it till he remembers that Granny should be pushing up daisies. Kicks up a fuss and escapes." Dean rubbed a hand across the back of his neck and growled.  
"The freaks escalating, it won't go back to munching dead people now. It'll try again." He ground a fist along his stubbled jaw and planted his foot more firmly on the impala’s accelerator.

"Yeah... it will.  
Doubt the kid was just opportunistic ... It's pretty cunning, dead loved one, that’s not a stranger, is it? If it wasn't for the adult witness, who collaborated that someone tried to grab him no one would even believe the boy .... because the Grandmother’s dead."  
  
"The grown-ups'd just put it down to the kid being upset or processing Grandma’s death or some shit, yeah."

"So, first stop cops? Then coroner’s office?"

"Yeah find out where the grandmother’s body turned up, get photos of all the dead people ghouly Mc Pedophile coulda munched, see if any of those stiffs had kids in their lives that could be targets... better interview this kid, Jamie too." Dean glanced at his watch, "recon we can find a motel, open in this burg, at this hour, or are we gonna end up sleepin' in the car til everythin' opens…” Dean frowned at a thought and shifted uncomfortably.  
“…Hey Sam, let’s not mention this case to Mitch okay?”

“Yeah nah man, totally agree.”

Ghouls trying to abduct and eat kids, yeah no!

...ooo0ooo...

**11:04AM  
Peaches… Since you’re my very smartest supernatural book and fic expert (that’s on line,) I have a question...**

Peaches, 11:05AM  
Ask away.

**11:05AM  
What spn creatures eyes glow.**

Peaches, 11:06AM  
It depends, really. Some can have glowy eyes, but don't every time their power is used. Think "Zeke" had glowing eyes when he took control from Sam each time.  
Demons will flash different eye colors, yellow, white, red … or black.

**11:07AM  
I'm more looking for a list of possible suspects for things with glowing, flaring or sparking eyes. Luminescence not just colour**

Peaches, 11:08AM  
Hmmm angels, jinn, witches, hell hounds, black dogs, the cicada spirit things, possibly some of the gods (not totally sure about that) that’s off the top of my head. Shape shifters eyes have the camera eye flare thing, as do vamps I think. Werewolves and demon’s eyes change color. Oh, and I think the Nephilim that Castiel killed in Clip Show had eyes that lit up.

**11:10AM  
Nephilim? Really?**

Peaches, 11:11AM  
Michele seriously?! Your fic has Nephilim in it. Do your research! There's nothing worse than ficwriters that don't do their research. I would like to add for completeness sake how that particular Nephelim wasn't exactly intent on destroying the world, or all that powerful she was just minding her own business working as a waitress until Castiel and Metatron turned up... But since your’s is Lucifer’s kid - meh! you can get away with it… I guess.

  
  
**11:12AM  
Clip Show Hu? How do you remember what happened in which book, genius kid? O.K I might have gotten a little lazy with my research ... I've been spoilt by knowing you, I like to think of it as Delegation! Working smarter not harder.**

Peaches, 11:14AM  
Yeah what eva, hey take a look at this article I dug up, it's not spn but ... I like using them as source material, remember my fic where Sam had firestarter Powers, I used some of the ideas from here.

Michele looked at the link

Ask mystic investigations?  
What causes eye glowing in supernatural creatures?

**11:15AM  
Is this my homework?**

Peaches, 11:16AM  
Seems unfair that I have so much, and you have none.

**11:18AM  
Sweetness I did the Uni thing, did the study slog thing. Got the degree and the job, gave it all up for the love of a child.**

**11:19AM  
But I do have homework Kiddo. A stack of stuff on dyspraxia to wade through. My studies tend to be about my kids issues, and my grades... they’re if I produce functional human beings that can thrive in the real world. **

**11:19AM  
** **If I fail so do they.**

****

Peaches, 11:19AM  
I guess that’s true.

**11:20AM  
Yup, all of life has tests Peachy girl. Problem is when you hit the world, you don’t always know you’re sitting them... But they matter.**

**  
**  
Peaches, 11:21AM  
Speaking of, I’ve got a test Friday.

**11:22AM  
Well off ya go, go study, go study -naggy Mum voice-**

****

Peaches, 11:22AM  
My actual Mom doesn’t nag… bossy Kiwi Mom!

**11:23AM  
Get to work kid, Boss boss boss**

****

**11:23AM  
Seriously though! Thanks for the article. I’ll take look at it in a bit.**

Peaches, 11:24AM  
cya

....

  
Michele scrolled through the article quickly.  
At first glance it looked like total crap.  
Blurry badly photo-shopped pictures trying to look like supernatural creatures, made it look pretty laughable.

But then her eyes started to snag on scientific terms, she scrolled back to the beginning and began reading in earnest.  
Discussions of tapetum lucidum in cat eyes, its role in reflecting and concentrating available light and how it was possibly similar to structures found in vampire and shapeshifter eyes.

Photon theory and possible links to the kind of energy that formed the soul.

A discussion of paranormal luminicence possibly being due, to metaphysic energy transfer.

It was an interesting read.  
Once she would have written it off as some fifth year medical student’s mental game of 'let’s imagine the fantastic is real, and try to explain it using real scientific theory.'  
It was filled with smatterings of anatomy, biology, physics and other sciences.  
There was a large dose of conjecture in it too, of course. But the article was a credible attempt at marry both science and the supernatural.

Six months ago, she would have laughed and said it was a game, perpetuated by someone clever trying to sucker people for fun…

Now that she found herself reluctantly beginning to believe in a world populated with things outside of her recognized reality; not just God and faith… and making allowance for miracles. But the things primitive people believed lurked in the dark, and monsters which she’d thought only belonged in movies.

  
Michele wondered if the article was written by a Hunter, or possibly one of the Men of Letters. Felt a winsome tug of intellectual longing.  
Imagined working in a laboratory investigating the amazing possibilities that came with the Supernatural… Was that what the Men of Letters did?  
Oh oh oh that would be AMAZING!

But of course, it was silly to think about, the Men of Letters weren't very nice people ...they would probably chop off her head soon as look at her.  
She had responsibilities anyway; and more than enough on her plate.

  
She continued reading with a more sombre mind.

The last paragraph dealt with humans with glowing eyes… Michele guessed that would be witches...and …Her, if she was human and wasn’t some unknowing, unhatched thing similar to some sort of prescient glowing eyed Rugaru.

  
“ ** _Humans can manifest brilliant ocular illumination when practicing powerful magics, manifesting their psychokinetic psi powers and sometimes while being possessed by various higher dimensional beings._**

**_Glowing eyes in a human can be a warning sign in an individual who has temporarily borrowed magic, a sign that they are seriously supernaturally straining their body on a cellular level. In most humans, such a shimmering show often signifies the individual has exceeded their bodies capacity to handle the metaphysical energy current.  
While in some cases the individual’s body has the ability to adjust to the strain. Often, left unchecked, like in an electric circuit attached to an extreme power source and a low wattage bulb, it will be only a matter of time before the metaphorical light bulb, which is the practitioners body, fails to continue functioning.”_ **

  
Michele felt her lips quiver, bit down hard on her bottom lip to stop. Stared at the words on the screen.  
‘ _seriously supernaturally straining their body on a cellular level’_ …  
‘…. _only a matter of time before the metaphorical light bulb, which is the practitioners body, fails to continue functioning’_  
… Yeah not really comforting.  
So, if the writer wasn't a crazy or someone playing pretend, she had a choice of what? Being a freakish thing waiting to hatch and spread its wings... or a light bulb or time bomb, waiting to blow.

…ooo0ooo…

"Honey can you tell me what happened?" Michele spoke quietly, crouched down beside the small shivering ball of her son, wedged under his school desk.

  
The small ball uncurled briefly and hurled itself into her arms, knocking her backwards against the desk behind her.

For a while she just held the quivering body, rocking slightly. Hugging him firmly and relaxing, rhythmic waves of compression, providing the proprioceptive input that would help calm him.

Glancing up, she met the eyes of the teacher who hovered near her desk hesitantly. The woman's eyes were slightly panicked.

"I'm sorry for calling you." the woman cooed nervously.

"No, you did the right thing. _NEVER_ hesitate to call. I'd be mad if you didn't." she dropped a kiss against her son’s hair, felt him curl tighter against her, his arms worming themselves round her waist.

“Will you tell me what happened?” she asked again quietly.

“It was art time—“

Michele had noted the paint smears on her son’s hands.

“—Johnny and Shawn seemed to be working together really well, then suddenly Johnny leaped at Shawn and shoved him back over the desk. Then he stood there, above Shawn, screaming.”

“Is the other boy okay?” Michele sighed wearily and bit her lip, turned earnest eyes up from her place on the floor.

_(The other question was, “are Shawn’s parents upset, and are they going to cause trouble,” hovered unspoken.)_

“Did the child say what caused it?” She asked.

Because there was always a reason, but usually the child who started it, (her wee Autistic bomb always ended it,) knew what had caused it, but wouldn’t say.

“Shawn was fine, a bit shocked… said he did nothing to provoke it.”

Michele dipped her head to her son’s hair, hiding a cynical smile.  
The teachers wording clued her in.

“Shawn’s one of the older children in the class? I can’t place him…” Michele asked carefully.

“Yes, he’s one of the bigger boys, a senior.  
I’m not sure you would know him.  
He isn’t in any of Johnny’s usual academic groups.” (Older, bigger and nowhere near as smart. _Got ya._ )

“Okay darling boy, I need to see your face,” A pale tear stained face raised hesitantly, eyes turned away. Michele cradled his face in both palms and ran a thumb under his eyes to wipe away the tears.  
  
“Shawn said or did something you didn’t like hu?”

A cringe a microscopic nod.

“Now what could this _Shane_ say that would upset Johnny I wonder. _Stuart_ must or done or said something...” she mused, as if to herself.

“ _Shawn_ ,, not Shane or Stuart, Mum!”

_(Yeah I know Kiddo, Mummy’s playin’ stupid to lubricate the all-important wheels of communication.)_

The face buried itself against her chest again.

“What, oh what, did _Steve_ say or do, I wonder?”

A mumble in response, she pried the small face up again, “I didn’t catch that, must be cos I don’t have ears on my tummy sweetstuff. What did _Spaghetti_ do? ”

“ _I said, Shawn lied!_ ” came the fierce response.

“Think it could have been 3D printer moment? We talked about that - people saying stuff cos they want us to like them. We don’t get mad at people for wanting us to like them, even if they sometimes forget lying’s wrong. We forgive them and help them see the truth is better.”

“ _Nooooo_!” It was the sound of a trapped animal.

( _I’m missing something here aren’t I?)_

Then that small chin lifted, braced. Bravery and determination settled onto his beloved little face.

( _That’s my boy, you tell me what I need to know, you can do it.)_

“I said you were going to let me come see, one day, when you had a transfusion. Just like you let me come see the scans, when Chris was in your tummy. That I could ask them _questions_.”

Michele smiled, ( _yes because if they can torture me with needles my love, you can ask them every curly question you’ve got… and I’m going to need you to be a marvellous big brother and keep Mr Christopher under control while I’m pinned down by an IV, since Daddy and the sisters aren’t gonna be home.)_

“Did he say I wouldn’t? You know I will, I never lie to you. I keep my promises”

“… no …” her son clung to her like a vice, as if to prevent her slipping away.  
His green eyes widened, remembering - soon to be shared- horror, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“ _He said you were going to… die… because you have to have transfusions.”_

Tears gathered in his beseeching eyes. Timeless summer green, slashed with gold and encircled in an aching infinity of cerulean blue, which held its breath like stopped time. A tear gathered like inevitability, shimmered, and trickled over down his cheek, onto her hand.

  
  
“ **Say you’re not going to die!** He lied, _didn’t he?!_ ** _Promise you won’t die!”_** the most precious voice she knew sliced her wide open and left her shattered and bleeding with its impossible demand.

After what she’d read less than an hour ago, pain twisted in her chest like a rusty knife, and held her voice and breath prisoner for a few hammering heartbeats.

“ _Oh, baby!_ People don’t die from transfusions. _They make people better…”_ She shared a look with her son’s teacher. “But I _can’t_ promise you I won’t die, _ever_. _Noone can_.” The words breached her lips like loss, ( _because I said I’d never lie, and I can’t start now.)_ “…Because everyone eventually dies, it’s how we’re made honey. We live, we die, we go to heaven, to be with God and wait for the ones we love…  
But you’re are a _big_ part” ( _I can’t tell you how much, I can’t lay that on your shoulders,)_ “of my reason for living and you’re right here! **_So, I’m not going anywhere without a fight_**. Because I. LOVE. YOU.” each word was punctuated with a kiss on his forehead.

Mother and son’s eyes locked solemnly.

“Okay?”

_Please, let that be enough, please God… let it be enough!_


	56. The Things Kids Know

**The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 56: The Things Kids Know**

Dean snorted in irritated disgust as he found himself outside, the politely, but firmly shut, front door to the Pond residence.

Over-protective freaking parents!  
He hadn't got a chance to talk to the kid, Jamie, without his hovering Mother, overriding and interrupting all his questions.  
The kid couldn't get a word in edgewise.  
Dean suspected it had been intentional.  
All he'd got was the party line; "an old lady approached Jamie on the way home from school, and grabbed him, he pulled free and ran.’ That was the whole story as far as Mom was concerned. ‘It was probably nothing, Jamie was frightened and traumatized by the whole experience, ended up with a bruised wrist and some confused thoughts... but it was over.’  
Then helicopter Mom had sent the kid to his room and politely escorted Dean to and out the front door.

Now here he stood on the sidewalk with nada and bupkis, his two least favored kinds of info.

Fricking useless waste of time!

There was a blonde girl with pigtails sitting on the brick fence of the neighbor house, she'd be about the same age as Jamie he guessed.  
Dean wondered if it would be worth asking her a few questions. She was watching him with sharp baby blues, swinging her legs, and staring at an iPad. Parents in the ‘burbs these days! Every kid had electronics.

"Mr, are you the FBI agent?"

"Why do ya wanna know kid?"

"Jamie says his Mom wouldn't let him talk to you. He's real peed off." The girl told him waving the iPad. "So-o, he asked me to come out here and wait for you." She giggled and twirled one of her pigtails "Parents are so dense... you are the FBI guy, right?"

Dean nodded, and flashed her his badge for good measure, wondered where this was leading.

"Okay Mr, Jamie wants to talk to you." The girl hopped off the fence and shoved the iPad into his hands, then scampered back to her fence, looking smugly pleased with herself.

Jamie Pond, all set up on Face-Time, looked back at him from the tablet.

"That’s… pretty smart." He drawled looking over his shoulder at the Pond house, and shifted back out of line of sight, in case Mrs Pond looked out her window and wondered why he was loitering.

Both kids grinned at him, one from the iPad and one from the fence.

"So, kid, want to tell me what actually happened?"

…ooo0ooo…

Kid witnesses were tricky. Sometimes they were useless ‘cause of trauma, (though kids were often more resilient than adults gave them credit for, few of them were as tough as he and Sam had been at the same age.)  
Sometimes they'd go off into flights of fantasy. If you didn't handle it right they'd tell you things they thought you wanted to hear, with no regard for facts (in their line of work that could be hard to spot,) or they’d veer off on a tangent for half an hour, going on about their best friend's birthday party, last year. You had to be patient.  
You had to be careful not to ask leading questions or volunteer too much information.  
You had to be careful not to make ‘em cry, (distressed kids were a one-way all-expense paid ticket to ‘get the hell out and don’t come back.’)  
You also had to be really careful people didn’t think you were a creep, paying too much of the wrong kind of attention to their kid.

The Pond kid and his pig-tailed accomplice, Tilly, were at that golden age, they could reason pretty well, but still believed a world where there was unexplained stuff, a world that most older kids and adults discounted.  
They were in that flux zone.

More to the point Jamie was pissed at his Mom for not believing him, so he wanted to help.

Jamie knew what he'd seen, he'd been attacked by a grandma that wasn't his grandma, because she was dead _("Well dahh I went to the funeral.")_

Now finally, someone in authority was listening to him.

Sam might still be trying to track down a photo of Jamie's Grandmother, and Mrs Pond might not have been forth coming with one, but all it took for Jamie to give Dean that information was for the boy to walk into his parent’s room and point his iPad at a huge the extended family photo framed and hanging on the wall, Dean snapped a photo of Grandma from iPad screen with his camera phone.

Two 8-year olds, technology and a guy used to asking the right questions. It was practically child's play.

Kids listen when parents think they aren't, so Jamie knew that last week, a month after they buried her, his grandma’s body had turned up in a dumpster behind the new subdivision on Barkley street.

Kids are damned macabre, (think about fairy tales for a moment and you'll understand what I'm getting at), they pick over gory details and whisper about them in corners of the school yard. In small towns where everyone knows everyone and always has (except for the new kids, the ones Sam and Dean Winchester had been constantly,) kids have an almost collective consciousness, the school yards are the ultimate form of crowd sourcing— when things are hinky, kids might not always know exactly what's happening, but they still know bucket loads of stuff.  
Useful stuff.

Pets matter to them, when Rover or Fluffy go missing their whole world tilts on its axis. They search and they worry and they mourn, they resonate with others who share their loss. Jamie and pig-tailed Miss Tilly could name 15 pets who had vanished within the past month and point out their homes on a map, which gave Dean a convincing zone of inquiry.

Kids also get everywhere, they know a lot about abandoned buildings and hiding places, (even if they've never set foot there themselves.) The rumor mill of the kid underground knows about them, the places adults don't go, places where hunters often find the things they seek.

With the right questions, Jamie and Tilly gave Dean all that information too.

After a fifteen-minute conversation with the kids, Dean had the two most likely locations for the fuglie of the week, and three more possibles.

…ooo0ooo…

"FaceTime Sam, yeah...”

“Hey, I'm good with kids, what can I say...”

“Look Sammy, since you've gotta wait for the copies of those photos, an' one of the possibles the kids thought of, is like a five-minute walk from here I'm just gonna swing past and scope it out, I'll text you the address, you can meet me there...”

“Ha, it's not ME the fuglies find so tasty, it's you, cream puff. Personally, I recon it's ‘cause you eat too much salad. Herbivores are always the prey of the food chain bro...”

“No seriously, don't get your knickers in a bunch, Samantha. I'll walk slow, saunter even...”

“My vocab' is much more extensive than four letter words, Bitch, some would say it's distensible.”

“No Dude, I let Mom win...”

“An' remember not to ride the brakes Sam...”

“‘Course, I'm serious! ... “

“I know you’ve got big feet man, but it's no excuse for having a lead foot...”

“She is not just a car…”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Yes, Mom…I've got my fricking gun...”

“Seriously Sam?!... Why don’t you just go try to teach Grandma to suck eggs, Dude I know how to cap a ghoul...”

“Whatever...”

“No! And don't park too close to the curb ...”

“Cause if you scrape my rims I'll kick your ass."

Dean cut the call, in the middle of a full-on little brother bitch-whinge, a self-satisfied grin plastered across his face.

…ooo0ooo…

In hind sight, it probably would have been much smarter to have waited for Sam.  
But Dean had seen something sort of red and white, like chewed bone in the overgrown weeds and grass, by the abandoned house’s flaking front door.  
As it turned out it had been a dried and mostly stripped cat skull.

  
He’d found someone’s missing pet. Sayonara, Fluffy, Tigger or Bandit. Could be something, could be nothing.  
That in turn, led him close enough to the south side of the house, to see that one of the boards over the basement windows was propped against, rather than nailed over, the window.  
That had, of course, led him to think maybe he could just check things out real quick, before Sam pulled up.  
After a fair amount of watching and listening, belly down in the dirt and scraggly weeds, letting his eyes adjust, he could make out that the dusty floor had a clearer strip to the stairs, up into the main house, signs of migratory passage back and forth. There were some low, half seen shapes along the back wall, not big enough to be a ghoul but frustratingly under-visualized in the gloom.

  
So, he’d slid through the basement window to check it out.

  
He scrambled through the window, which admittedly seemed a bit tighter fit than he thought it should be.  
If Sam’d been here he would have had to endure both barrels of “Mr Healthy eating’s” knowing look and frowny face. A silent admonishment that he wasn’t getting any younger and should do more to live a healthier lifestyle.

  
Then, as he landed, his stupid, grip-less, Fed dress shoes slid on something slick and dumped him on his ass ‘shoulda worn his wraith goobied boots after all’, he was gonna change back into them as soon as he got back to the car, so what if one squelched a bit, at least they’da kept him upright.  
Repressing the urge to swear, Dean scrambled to his feet realizing the slick stuff he’d slipped in had the rancid smell of rotting meat and the tacky-slick slide of old blood. Fan-freaking-tastic ugh!  
Now he was in the basement the half-seen shapes resolved into disturbing lumps of mystery meat. He grimaced and decided against investigating too closely.  
He’d found the ghouls larder, looking back at the window now he was in, he decided to leave by a through and through route, rather than attempting to scramble back up and out the tight window in his useless dress shoes.  
Dean moved stealth-fully through the fetid darkness to the stairs, center of balance low to the ground, senses on high alert and gun in hand. Slid up the treads silent as a cat and eased open the door at the top of the stairs.

“I’m hungry,” a quavering voice made Dean freeze.

  
“I want to taste the blood, still warm, the flesh still wriggling. I want a little one.”

The voice dropped to a rambling croon that reminded Dean suddenly of Golem from “Lord of The Rings” and his bipolar monologues. With a shudder, the hunter pushed the thought away superstitiously, blanking his mind of all things Tolkien as he followed the voice through the house, to the front room.

There it was, the ghoul. It paced in the boarded-up gloom, looking like the old woman from Jamie’s family photo. But moving with disconcerting predatory grace. The creatures gait might be smooth and put together, but the way it crooned, warbled and wailed to itself as it paced, was anything but.

  
Dean had heard enough, he raised his ivory handled Colt 1911 A1 and emptied his clip into its brain-pan. Obliterating most of its head.

Shortly after that everything went to hell.

  
A numbing blow hit his raised gun arm from behind, the empty gun flew in a stop-motion arc from the hunter’s suddenly nerveless hand.

  
Another blow knocked him flying across the room.

  
Dean felt a moment of regret as he realized his mistake.  
There had been two ghouls, apparently.

Sam was gonna be real pissed at him… _If he was lucky._


	57. Lady in Red

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 57: Lady in Red**

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FM7MFYoylVs>

  
_"I've been reading books of old,_  
_the legends and the myths._  
_Achilles and his gold,_  
_Hercules and his gifts,_  
_Spiderman's control,_  
_and Batman with his fists._  
_And clearly I don't see myself upon that list._  
  
_But she said, where'd you wanna go?_  
_How much you wanna risk?_  
_I'm not looking for somebody_  
_with some superhuman gifts,_  
_some superhero._  
_Some fairytale bliss._  
_Just something I can turn to,_  
_somebody I can miss."_  
  
  
Michele grinned and looked over her shoulder at her two year old strapped in his car-seat and seriously rocking out, arms and legs waving wildly, small head weaving back and forth as he yodelled along in his unique, all vowels way.

Michele laughed turning up the radio, and tapped her hands on the steering wheel to the music as she drove.   
  
_"I want something just like this_  
_Doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo_  
_Oh, I want something just like this_  
_Doo-doo-doo, doo-doo_  
_Doo-doo-doo_  
_Oh, I want something just like this_  
_I want something just like this._

  
_I've been reading books of old,_  
_the legends and the myths._  
_The testaments they told,_  
_The moon and its eclipse._  
_And Superman unrolls_  
_A suit before he lifts._  
_But I'm not the kind of person that it fits"_  
  
  
_I_ t was a song she'd heard before, but she couldn't name the band.   
Unlike the Winchester way of doing things, in the Chadwick car, the rule was more, "The teens pick the radio station and the driver endures. Else they’ll be driven mad by the constant teenaged whining."

  
The song somehow reminded her of the Winchesters, though she was sure Dean would rather die horribly than listen to something like it.

  
Michele flicked on her turn signal and took the turn to the park with the duck pond, nodding her head and singing along with the chorus as she drove. 

_"But she said, where'd you wanna go?_

_How much you wanna risk?_  
_I'm not looking for somebody_  
_with some superhuman gifts._  
_Some superhero._  
_Some fairytale bliss_  
_Just something I can turn to,_

_somebody I can miss"_

The song came to an end as they hit the parking lot.  
  
"Eat ducks!" Her son demanded, as Michele pulled parking brake and grabbed the bread bag of stale crusts; her son’s weekly tribute to his feathery pals.   
  
"We are going to _feed the ducks_. The ducks will _eat the bread_. No Ducks will be _eaten_ in the creation of this experience..." The mother lectured her son with easy good humour, reaching for her seatbelt…   
  
Her hand fell away, body jerking once, head rocked back against the headrest, as a vision hit.   
  
Sparks of gold flared and spluttered in green eyes. Trickles of blood ran from her nose, made a leisurely path across parted lips, down her chin and began to journey along the pale line of Michele’s throat.   
  
A gasp of pain.

Michele came back to herself, with a look of flinching irritation, wiped at the blood on her face and neck with her palm. Smearing it across pale skin.   
  
"Well, _that_ was the world’s most useless vision. Dunno what I'm supposed to do with _that_." She muttered derisively, shoving her hair back out of her face, reached for the migraine pills and baby wipes from the glovebox.  
"Either supernatural signal strength here sucks, or the Bibles wrong about God not sleeping and he's asleep in the control room ...” She shoved bloody wipes in her pocket. “Maybe my lightbulb _really is_ on it’s way out." she sighed with a grimace.   
  
"Ou-, ou-... eat ducks!" her two-year-old clamoured from the back seat, bouncing in place and making his mother winced.   
  
"Yeap, ok, got it. _Priorities Mummy_. Gotta feed the quackers. Who knows, maybe zen and the art of duck feeding will help me work out what to say to Sam..." 

…ooo0ooo…

  
It _looked_ like a fifty-ish, graying, soft-round-the-middle executive; as it stalked towards Dean holding a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire. The ghoul reminded him of a nightmare little league Coach from the dark side of hell.   
  
"Let me guess, you'll be playing the part of Ghoul number two this afternoon?" The hunter spat sarcastically, pulling his feet under him, and eyeing his fallen gun, calculating his chances.  
The hunter pulled out his knife, it wouldn't kill the freak easy, ghouls were wicked fast and strong, but it was better than nothing.  
  
"And you'll be playing the part of... a well tenderized cut of meat… By the time I'm finished with you. Hunter." The ghoul replied, stalking forward and kicking his gun aside. "The menu advertised something younger and juicier than _you_... but I'm adaptable. This..." the ghoul took a swipe with the bat, "isn't a meat mallet, but my donor really _loved_ his baseball, even wanted to be buried with this thing... of course... I’ve _improved_ it a bit." The ghoul smirked proudly, tilting the wire wrapped bat, bounced on his toes, and made another swing. "While you'll never taste as sweet as a kid... with enough … _pounding_ , you'll be nearly as tender."  
  
"Yeah scuzz bucket, we know you like em young. Neva woulda guessed it, lookin at your girlfriend." Dean taunted.  
  
"Shut your face!" The ghoul snarled, stepping closer, raising the bat again.

  
  
Grinning ferally, Dean widened his stance, crouched, gripping his knife in an easy hand. Made a come on gesture with his free hand and raised a mocking eyebrow at the creature.

_“Hey batter batter batter! S-wing batter!"_ he taunted in an easy drawl, hoping the ghoul would get mad enough to simply lunge, leave an opening for him to duck past and go for the gun.  
  
"Food shouldn't be this mouthy," the ghoul complained, stepped in, swung the bat at his knife in his hand.   
  
Dean dodged away. 

The bat missed making contact, but the barbed wire wrapped around it caught on the hunter's jacket.

Dragged him off balance. 

Sent him stumbling sideways.

Dean blundered over the first ghoul’s body. 

Went down.

The knife skated out of his grasp.   
  
"Strike one." Dean grimaced, tried to get to his feet. Internally cursing his grip-less dress shoes as one slid on essence of ghoul, twisting his knee.  
  
"That's more than okay Tiger, the next ones gonna be a line drive." 

The ghoul strode closer, raised the bat again, and prepared to swing, smash in his skull.

Without fanfare, its head disintegrated. 

The ghoul’s body slumped to the floor.

Dean looked up. 

Sam stood in the doorway frozen, the shotgun still raised. Panting, Eyes wide behind his straggly hair. 

"Sammy, nice of you to join the party." Dean ground out, smeared a layer of homogenized ghoul brain off his face with his jacket sleeve.

The younger brother shuddered, and exhaled sharply, letting the gun drop to his side. Swept his hair back with an unsteady hand. 

"One of these days... I'm not going to get here in time, you fucking moron." Sam flared. 

  
"Not today." Dean quoted with a shit eating grin.

"Screw you Syrio Forel, you hurt?" Sam questioned roughly, grabbing his brothers forearm and hauled him to his feet.  
  
Dean rolled his shoulders and snorted. Collected his weapons, replaced the Colts clip and slid everything out of sight. "Nah... bruises cross m' back... Nothin' that a couple of shots of the good stuff won't fix." Dean bent over, picked up the baseball bat from beside the collapsed ghoul and bounced it in his palm thoughtfully. “Clean-up on this ones gonna be a bitch. Basements full of mystery meat, this dump’s isolated … my votes ta torch the whole joint.”

Sam huffed and rolled his eyes, then shrugged “Whatever you think best John Leonard Orr.”

“Who?”

“Serial arsonist from the late 80’s, Dean. They called him the _Pillow Pyro.”_

“Ahh - _serial killer fetish_ … right,” the older brother muttered, beginning to drag a dead ghoul towards the basement stairs.

“No, Orr only killed 4 people… and I think it was mostly accidental.” Sam disagreed grabbing the other body’s legs and following his brother.

…ooo0ooo…

  
“So, let me get this straight.” Dean Winchester muttered, looking away from the road at his brother. “You’re sayin’ your frickin’ pet hobbit is asking us t' _stay away from bars_ because… she had a vision ‘ _that felt bad’_ of you sitting at a bar with some chick in a red dress. That it’s because you ‘n’ I ‘ _saw this woman differently_.’

I mean seriously, what the hell dude!”

“Uhh…” Sam shot his brother a rueful glance, “yeah Dean… that pretty much sums it up.”

“Seriously Sam?!! She’s not a prophet an’ she’s ain’t our Mom, an’ **I want a frickin drink!** We deserve it, wrapping up two cases in two days… frankly Sam, with the kinda intell she provided, it’s just as likely Mitch’s ‘ _bad feelin’_ has more t’ do with not wantin’ t’ watch ya get laid.”

Dean sniggered at his brother as he ducked behind his hair, looking mortified. “And I _do_ sorta sympathize with the woman … But...Ya gotta do _what_ _or who_ ya gotta do, little brother. We are _not_ letting your pet Tolkien creation jerk us around, I mean... since she’s not gonna jerk you o—“ Sam shoved his brother. Hard.

Dean laughed in delight and nudged his brother affectionately. “You’re sooo easy Sammy.”

“Nah Dean,” Sam favored his brother with a sly grin “I’m pretty sure, the title of easy Winchester brother goes to you dude.”

…ooo0ooo…

“Fine! We’re here. We’re ignoring Michele, are you happy Jerk?”

Dean gave his brother with a disarming smile and a hum of satisfaction.

“Great, marvelous… but I am not hooking up with anyone… especially not some woman in a red dress, Dean. We are here _solely_ so you can marinade your liver until it sobs for mercy.”

Dean continued smiling in a maddeningly conceited manner, as Sam shot him a sour look of irritation.

“Just… just give me the keys.. okay.”

Dean snorted in amusement and tossed the keys to his brother over the impala’s roof, ducked back inside and pulled out the ghoul’s baseball bat. Wrapping it in his splattered jacket.

“Com’on seriously, Dean! You can’t take a baseball bat into a bar. There’s no way in hell…”

“Sure, I can Sam… I’m a federal agent and this here’s an important piece of evidence.”

“Cut the crap man, you really don’t need to take that thing into the bar!”

“I really do Sam… I’m sure there’s a signature on this thing, why else would grey n pudgy have been buried with it? I just need t’ look at it in some decent light. I’ll do it in the men’s if it makes you happier, Agent Uptight… this thing could be worth serious cash Sam.”

Sam shot his brother a look that was practically copy-written, as “ _you are so mind-numbingly reckless at times that I fantasize about knocking you unconscious and tossing you in the trunk.”_

…..

Dean ran a calloused finger gossamer light and reverent over the wire wrapped wood.

“Unfrickin be-lievable… Signed by Babe Ruth… Sam’s gonna flip.” The hunter breathed, a sunny smile and a childlike look of anticipation lighting his face.

Pushing the men’s room door open Dean scanned the dark bar eagerly for his brother.

“Sam…” Dean’s voice faltered, eyes widening at what he saw.

Sam sat at the bar, next to a woman, his whole body turned towards her, head tilted in rapt absorption.  
As Dean watched, his little brother laid one of his hands on the woman’s knee and slid it up her thigh. The woman laughed lightly reached forward tangling her fingers in Sam’s hair and pulled him down, kissing him deeply.

Dean watched agape with surprise.

“sam?”

He’d only been gone five minutes, and his kid brother, who often took half an hour to pluck up the courage to _talk_ to a chick in a bar, was groping some random chick and making out with her?!

“ _Sam!”_ Dean barked sharply, making towards his brother. Unease seething in his gut.

Sam, who would usually respond to his brothers call, half unconscious and bleeding out, didn’t so much as twitch.

Then the woman in the red dress wove her fingers through Sam’s, leaped down off her bar stool and pulled Sam away and out the door.

…Sam’s unusually forward behavior…a woman in a _Red dress_ … a chick they both _saw differently._

_Sonofabitch!_

Dean hit the parking lot at a dead run, just in time to see the impala pull out.  
A half-seen glimpse of the creature reflected in his Baby’s side mirror completed the picture.

Sam in the driver’s seat and a _siren_ in a red dress riding shotgun.


	58. Tell Merril to swing away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note this chapter contains lots of graphic violence involving a baseball bat. It’s bloody unpleasant, you have been warned!

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 58: Tell Merril to swing away**

To be a good hunter you have to think on your feet and react instantly.

Dean wheeled, surveying the cars in the bar's parking lot.  
Chose the oldest vehicle he could see. Checked for a car alarm.

A baseball bat to the backseat driver’s side window is a magnificently quick and efficient way of unlocking a car. A trifle noisy and destructive, but the bar had been pretty loud and there was no one else in sight.

Usually, he'd use more finesse when boosting a car.  
But he didn't have time.  
And frankly it felt good to smash something.

"Damn it Sam! Why do you have to be monster fricking catnip." Dean snarled.  
Lent through and forward, unlocked the driver’s door.  
Yanked the seat release, slammed it back, giving himself room to slide inside.  
Tossed the bat on the passenger seat beside him.

Working with hectic urgency, Dean pried the steering column cover off using his knife, nearly cutting himself in the process, hands shaking with the need to fix his stupidity. Get Sam back.

( _'Fuck, why couldn't I have listened to Sammy’s frickin pet?')_

'Less haste more speed, boy,' a ghost of a memory of Bobby Singer admonished.

Dean closed his eyes, and gave himself one breath.  
Flashes of memory: Him and Sam racing to hot-wire Junkers. Singer Salvage of childhood. Bobby watching. Gruffness, dirty cap and griseled beard unable to obscure his pride... An instant flood, behind closed eyelids. For one inhale.

Hot-wiring cars was about the only automotive skill Sam had shown any real interest in, honestly he excelled Dean at it - Dean could admit that in the privacy of his own head. For years, if a car needed boosting, it was Sam's gig.

Opening his eyes, Dean yanked out the wires with steady hands.  
Stripped the relevant ones. Twisted. Then sparked the ignition and battery wires together. Was rewarded by the engine coughing to life.

"Ha, still got it!”

Flooring it, Dean slammed the piece of crap car into gear and gave chase, before the impala's retreating tail lights disappeared from view.

.....

The spot Dean followed them to was isolated, he ditched his stolen wheels and approached on foot.  
The woman in the red dress, no the Siren in the red dress, was perched on the hood of his car making out with his kid brother.  
Everything in Dean screamed for him to drag the unnatural bitch off his stupid lunkhead of a brother, throw Sammy into his Baby and make a run for it.  
But he had to be smart, and he had to end it. Sirens weren’t particularly strong or fast by themselves. They used their paramours to do their dirty work.  
Right now, that was Sam. Dean wasn’t sure if Sam had his gun on him, but he was going to be armed with something.  
All Dean had was a baseball bat and his knife. He didn’t want to chance a fight that he might end up losing. Or hurting Sam.  
He didn’t want another Nick Monroe moment, with no Bobby to save the day.  
Much as it pained him, he was going to have to risk Sam’s noggin and knock him out first.  
Move fast, and hard. Make Sammy go night night for a little, then take care of the brother stealing, car swiping mega bitch.  
It was good, Dad had drilled them endlessly on the best technique (though even now, Dad’s graveled tones warned, it wasn’t without risks,) one sharp hit to the bundle of nerves behind the ear, worked best on an unsuspecting person. And wrapped up in siren bitch’s love juice, Sammy was certainly that.

One slightly pulled wack and Sam slumped to the ground, out to it.

The next strike was with everything Dean had, it knocked the woman (siren) away from Sam and the impala, took it straight in the mouth smashing its teeth and its poison sack back into its head.  
The thing let out a high-pitched shriek, finding its feet again.  
Advanced hissing Sam’s name with a proprietorial sound of command, as though he was nothing but an attack dog and cannon fodder rolled into one.  
Rage gripped Dean in its jaws. A red mist came down…

…ooo0ooo…

When Michele woke, it was to the mewling almost soundless sobbing of an overwrought two-year-and-a-half-year-old, one who ‘d been crying, uncomforted, for so long he was beginning to believe no one cared enough to respond.

Disorientated and horrified, for a second Michele didn't know if she had actually been beaten, stabbed through the heart.  
_But of course, it was a vision.  
If she could move, if her body was more than pulpy mush and splintered bone - it was a vision._

She was uncertain, and disoriented.  
Blood was smeared _everywhere_ , maybe some of it was her sons....

Her boy was draped across her ribs, face wedged under her chin, body wracked and shuddering with the ebbing force of misery. Too young to understand.  
His small hands are knotted in and have torn out fistfuls of her hair.

Her heart hammered in panic as she untangled her toddler from her, enough to get a decent look, check him over.  
His small face was covered in blood, but it looked like it was all her blood.

  
Both mother and son are undamaged physically, but a wreck in every other way.

"Shh shhh honey, it's okay, we're okay. I'm sorry darling, mummy’s darling shh shh don't cry. Please don't cry, I'm here, I'm here... Mummy’s okay. You're okay."

Her voice is a hoarse croak.

  
She understands.

  
Sympathetic terror for both of them, then.

  
Part of what has terrified her son so thoroughly, is that she was screaming.  
Sharing the screams, along with everything else.

Until Sam finally put them both (her and the owner of the body she rode in the vision,) out of their misery with a dagger thrust to the heart.  
  
A shudder ripped through her as she tried to disengage from the memory.

Stumbling to her feet, cradling her child close, and trying not to cry while shushing her son. Michele succeeded with the shushing, but failed to stem the tears. At least she kept them silent.

If the vision itself, feeling and living ...that... wasn't bad enough.  
Coming back to herself to find her son in such distress.  
A small snapshot of what could happen if she blacked out during a vision, REALLY started bleeding and doesn't come back…  
It is her own private hell, imagining her child undiscovered for hours...  
Alone and sobbing against her corpse...  
  
Her eldest son alone at school, uncollected, overwrought and frantic, the way he gets if she's even a minute late ... only a thousand unending times worse! If autism isn't bad enough, growing up without her to be his advocate and shield...

Her daughters bursting happily in through the front door, already spilling stories of their day, like they always do, after a self-absorbed teenaged day of learning to discover ... a dead mother and a traumatised little brother... childhood smashed in an instant.

Her husband is a good man and he'd _try_ , but she _knows_ deep down who holds their family together...

Michele staggered under the weight of it all, whimpering son in her arms. She made it as far as the chair by the computer and collapsed into it.

 _'Stop! Stop now, don't think about it.'_ she yelled at herself mentally trying to stop herself circling a hysterical pitch of thought she can’t afford. NOT NOW OR EVER.

She grabbed up the pack of wipes off the desk.  
Crooning nonsense and reassurance, she rocked her son gently, began cleaning the blood, tears and snot from his face and hands.  
Tried to clean away at least that much, of the horror.

Eventually, exhausted, the toddler fell asleep on her lap. Leaving her alone with her thoughts, and blood-soaked memories.

' _It's over and done now, old news,’_ a mocking voice seems to whisper inside her head and she knew, somehow, there was no stopping _this_ vision.  
It has already played out half a world away.  
There was no sparing anyone.

' _Your white knights have bloody hands. They've spilled rivers of blood, your precious Winchester boys.'_

She had thought she knew what they were, what they did.... but somehow, she'd never understood.

Carver Edlund’s books, the Fanfiction stories... even being told that the things she'd written of in Montauk were real... None of that had removed the hazy fairytale idealism she'd had.

Maybe that vision of the priests and nuns had pierced her... but not really, a bad guy did that...

Now she has been forced to contend with visceral gut twisting reality.

Eyes forced wide open, every sense invaded and laid bare. Forced to _not just_ _witness the violence,_ but to become victim and perpetrator, **both**.

To stare into the faces of people she thought she’d come to care for, as they killed her.

To be ridden by a venomous inhuman hunger, the need to spoil, ruin and possess. To loath the men, her killers (but also, to still possess her own sentiment towards them,) to be driven by a compulsion a _**want**_ to make them suffer (but also feel horror and grief for her killers), along with the agony, each impact of the baseball bat, shuddering through her, the disorientation, disbelief, rage at losing.

Suffering … _agony of ruined flesh and bone,_ for what seemed an eternity.  
Dean’s face a snarling down in loathing.

His harsh barking words, punctuating each impact.

Feeling her bones shatter, her flesh become nothing but twitching meat, to go on thinking through all that.

To suffer, _please God make it end,_ so far past the point where a human body would have shut down, passed out, Died.

To ALSO feel her(his) ... _Dean’s_ , hands gripping the wooden bat, feel the killing rage and haterid burn inside, as she(he) swung and swung again, and _Again_...  
Turning the beautiful woman before her(him) into nothing but grey splattered mush wrapped in a red rag.  
Vengeance, vindication, a species of protective madness, they're all blurred inside her(him) and she(he) doesn't care. They simply wanted to kill the siren, obliterate it, make it pay. _Make them all pay._

They glory in the singing of their muscles as they felt flesh and bone pulverise under …Dean’s (not hers, _please God not hers_ ) swings.  
Avenging angel, or psychotic killer, the line is long gone.  
Flashbacks of Hell and purgatory edge the killer with a baseball’s vision.

...ooo0ooo...

Sam came around.

"Dean?"

His voice is raspy.

Head sore, 'something hit me, where am I – confusion—

“Dean?!'”

Hearing Deans voice, a broken diatribe, half slotted together words, panting, almost animalistic snarls, broken off screams and moans, the wet thwack of impacts.  
And unhinged barks of laughter.

"Mine... can't have him... fucking siren bitch... don't get him... my... brother... not gonna... let … you… get your hooks in… Learned... that’s right, scream… keep screamin’…  
Gonna pay... can't believe... stole m fucking car... mine... Both mine!... Siren bitch...  
Why... can't... he… just… meet a... nice girl... But Nooo! Screw him up, Worse...  
fuck... goddamnit... bitch Siren... Mine ... not gonna... mine... hear me… my job..."

Wash of horror, realization, knowledge and guilt.

Siren? Wash of memory: _Perfection ... So beautiful.. Wow! Amazing... Need ...Just want… So right...Please….Yes._

 _Siren_?

Oh God! Fuck, hell, damn! So stupid... how...

**Siren! Red dress... see differently... Crap!**

_Dean_?

Wet impacts, blunt force...

The baseball bat?

_That Won't kill it!_

Need... Impala ... dagger... song... blood

Blood, need my blood...bronze dagger... Impala...

Where's the fucking keys?

Unsteady.

There. Thank god!

Okay!

Sharp pain, blood on the blade.

Yanking Dean back (too far gone to protect his own fucking back, _damn it Dean!_ )  
Burying the blade in the pulverized creature’s chest.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam looked up from where he’s crouched over what was left of the siren, at his older brother who stood there, wide eyed and panting, like he wasn’t really aware of his surroundings.

Dean was still holding the bat like he was going to take another swing. He's splattered, make that _coated,_ in gore.

"Dean?" Sam calls. " ** _Dean! Hey!_** _Come back to me man."_ His brother startles, and gives a full body shudder like he's coming awake, glances at the siren’s pulped corpse and looks away, but Sam catches the sick expression on his brother’s face.

When Dean turns back it’s with a cocky smile plastered seamlessly over the cracks.

"Hey Sam, sorry about the head.”

“A baseball bat?”

“What I had on me, ya know.” A slightly dopey grin, like Dean’s stoned or drunk, he holds out the bat, “signed by Babe Ruth Sammy, cool hu?”

…ooo0ooo…

Dean had retrieved the impala’s keys. Checked Sam for signs of concussion, after the K-O, then with typical older brother caring, Dean had punched his little brother in the arm and declared he had lousy taste in women.

They’d doused the sirens corpse with gasoline and salt, set it on fire and watched the remains become charcoal.

  
Buried what was left, with loam.

Dean had used all their bottled water to clean up the baseball bat…insisted on showing Sam the signature.

_(“Babe Ruth, man!... Now it’s been used by two living legends! Cause you know I’m awesome, Sam. I can really swing one of these things.”_

  
“Uhhh .... yeah Dean.”)  
  
Meanwhile, Dean was still splattered with gore, wearing it like a badge of honor.

They climbed into the impala and hit the road, homeward bound.

After about 20 minutes of silent driving, Sam looked over at his brother

“Hey Dean?”

“Hmph?”

“’ _Tell Merril to swing away’?_ ” Sam quoted with a half-smile.

Dean chuckled “’Signs’ Sam?”

“Ha …Yeah…” A shoulder bump and a shared smirk.  
Sam turned back to stare out the window into the darkness, thinking vaguely that he would be glad to get home, to the Bunker.

Maybe, he should apologize to Michele for not listening to her.

  
It had been days since he’d last spoke to her, and while he wasn’t going to give her any details, about anything that had happened in that time… whatever she was, she’d proved often enough she was trying to help, trying to watch their back… Even if she wasn’t a prophet…

Okay maybe he wouldn’t say anything about the email, if she didn’t bring it up, letting sleeping dogs lie, might be easier.

But he looked forward to the way she always smiled at him, said she was glad they were both home safe.

That felt good.

Like what he thought coming home was supposed to feel like.


	59. Baby-wipes don’t fix that!

**The Thing You Hate**

  
**Chapter 59: Baby-wipes don’t fix that!**

Sam followed his brother down the bunkers wrought iron stairs, through the war room and into the library. Massaged the back of his neck with a weary groan, feeling a dull throb in the back of his skull.  
On the scale of one to ten, his headache was a probably a four. Part lingering pain after being knocked out, part exhaustion from the hectic slew of proceeding days.

"Hoo-hoo! Back to back to back. That was one for the books." Dean enthused. Still on the same jittery almost drugged high he has maintained for the past few hours.

"Yeah." Sam agreed, less enthusiastically.

"Man," the elder Winchester examined his newest toy happily. "Dad would love this thing."

Sam couldn't help noticing, while Dean had sluiced it off after the siren’s demise, there was still blood and gore caught around the barbed wire.

Dean dropped the wire wrapped baseball bat onto the wooden library table, making Sam shoot him a scowl for dropping the barbed, gore encrusted, _thing_ on his favored space. _  
"Dude, on the — on the — ? No, don't, don't, don't, don't! Don't si—"_ Sam protested, as his brother continued his assault of the Men of Letters library by slumping his gore splattered body into one of the wingbacked chairs, groaning dramatically.

"What?" Dean asked sending a bewildered pout in Sam's direction.

"Dean, you're covered in ghoul, man, and— and— and wraith," Dean looked down as if only just noticing the gore covering his clothes "…And .... _I think you have a piece of siren in your hair._ " He ended, pointing out the bloody chunks caught in his brother’s dark hair, with a wave of his hand.  
Yes, Sam could hear the disgusted whine in his own voice, but could Dean be any grosser?

He watched, wearily repulsed, as Dean ran his fingers through his short hair, encountered the dried in chunks, (of siren) pried them loose with a groan, and examined the gory bone fragments with a stoned snigger,  
"Gross." He declared.

"Yeah..." Sam agreed, then watched in horrified disgust, as his brother proceeded to flick the chunks of siren across the room.

"Dude? _!" (you are so cleaning that up.)_  
Sam took a breath and didn't react with what Dean called 'one of his bitch fits.' Dean really wasn't acting like himself, or maybe he was... Just taking jerkhood to a greater extreme today ...

Either way...

"Why don’t you take a shower and change your clothes. You’ve been wearing the same pair of boxers for four days." Sam tried, hoping to sound reasonable.

"Okay, one. Weird that you know how much underwear I packed."

" _That’s_ what’s weird about this?"

"And B, it’s two and two. Doesn’t count if you flip ‘em inside out." Dean informed him smugly, with a chlick and a wink; as if he'd just nailed defending world’s most disgusting older brother for the Guinness book of world records.

Further discussion of Dean’s underwear was _thankfully_ short circuited, by the chime of Sam’s cell.

Sam favored Dean with a disgruntled huff as he pulled it out of his pocket to checked it.

The message was from “Frodo,” aka Mick Davies. British Man of letters.  
It read, “Sheridan County, Nebraska. Missing camper. Bloody aftermath. -M”

Yeah, honestly not the Hobbit he hoped to hear from, right now. _Damn!_

"Got another case." He told Dean, frowning.

" _Really_?" Dean looked up at him, with remarkably less enthusiasm than he'd shown before the ghoul case, in fact he looked a little hangdog for a moment.  
"Already!? ... How’d you do that?" He demanded.

"Same as the others. I-I made a computer algorithm that scrapes data from police scanners, emergency calls, uh, local news sites, and then it puts everything through a h—. "  
Sam stopped, realizing his brother was staring at him with a glazed expression, yeah probably didn't need to put quite so much effort into the lie.

"The computer told me." He finished, waggled his phone for emphasis and grinned disarmingly.  
Then, felt a momentarily shot of guilt, reminded unpleasantly of lies and Hobbits... advice untaken. _("Better to confess your treason's than get caught in the middle of them, Sam.")_  
He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Computers." Dean chuckled appreciatively. "Monsters, porn. Is there anything they can't do? _All right!"_ Slapping his knee, Dean got to his feet. "Well, let's get to it, then."

"Yeah, that's fine. Ahh dude, um… **_After_** you get cleaned up."

"I got baby wipes in the car."

"Dude. Dean, _I’m serious, man!”_ Sam warned. "You smell like roadkill." There was no way on earth he was spending more than 5 hours in the car with _that_.

Dean looked down at himself again, as if once again, he'd forgotten what he was covered in. "That's 'cause I do all the heavy lifting." Dean noted mildly.

" _You_...?!" Sam rolled his head in disbelief, and huffed in annoyance.

"All right." Dean sighed, like he was put upon. "But I'm using that fancy shampoo you keep hidden from me." He threatened, childish mode fully engaged.

Sam rolled his eyes and hefted a deep sigh as his brother walked out, finally towards the showers.

...ooo0ooo…

Michele was curled up around her youngest kid, in that old armchair which seemed to pass for a computer chair in their household.

It appeared at first glance, both mother and son were sleeping. But, tracking the motion of Michele's fingers as they carded through the kid’s hair, Sam realised the mother was awake.

Sam cleared his throat uncertainly. "Hey," he greeted, expecting she'd look up at the screen and smile in greeting. Instead she froze momentarily, seeming to curl inwards, before taking a deep breath as if bracing herself.

"Hi Sam," she answered softly, without looking up.

So maybe, she knew they'd ignored her email. Sam rubbed the back of his neck, wondering why he couldn't catch a break.

"Uh Michele ... is everything .... okay?"

"Sam, honey... I'm not sure I can do this... Not... right now." Still, she didn't look up, her voice was hushed, halting, apologetic, somehow... wrong and broken.

It wasn't the voice of a woman who was annoyed about having her advice unheeded.  
It was the voice of a civilian that had come face to face with a monster.  
Unease tightened in his chest.

"Michele, what happened? Did you see something... Or ...did someone ... hurt you?" His rough demands made her flinch, again. Ramping his frustration and worry higher.

The urge to check the room for threats, secure the perimeter, get a decent look at her and check her for injuries clamored within him.

All impossible.

"I need you to talk to me." He coaxed, using the gentlest voice he could manage.

It worked, she raised her head. Not enough that he could get a decent look at her, past all that hair and her kid on her lap, but he could tell she was studying his face on the screen.

"Sam...." she faded out, "I don't know how to answer those questions... not... right now.... or even if I should..." she swallowed. "I'm, I'm okay... "

"You don't _sound_ okay. Something’s wrong. If it was a vision. Or anything else... _You can talk to me."_

Michele made a sound in the back of her throat and pushed her tumble of wild dark hair back from her face. Finally sat up enough, so that he could see her.

She was a wreck.  
Pale to the point of near translucence. Trembling minutely like she was cold, or in shock.  
Behind glasses tide marked with the salt of evaporated tears, her downcast eyes were wary, bloodshot and raw; a vibrant tear washed green, surrounded by ashy circles.

There was a small superficial cut on her bottom lip, like she'd bitten through it, but _that_ wouldn't account for all the blood. Splattered down her shirt, smudged across her chin, caught in the creases at the corner of her mouth.

The rusty stain of dried blood drew his eyes uncomfortably, making something clench, low in his stomach.

"You had a vision." Sam hazarded, "tell me what you saw."

Michele shook her head, eyes widening, like she was scared.

Sam frowned, fighting not to make demands, while she looked so fragile.

"No, it wasn't a vision? Or no you can't, or won't tell me what's going to happen?" He coaxed.

"Sam ..." her lips parted on a whispered sigh, gathering herself.  
"Yes, it was a vision. But it's happened already... So... I... don't think ... Talking about it isn't ... I just need to, to ..." a tear tracked silently down her cheek. She shook her head again, wiped it away with a grimace.  
"I just need to get over it. It's fine, really..."

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, he huffed a breath. "It's not fine. Tell me what you saw.... _please_." The muscles in his jaw were jumping.  
" _ **Tell me the truth!**_ " His demand was more abrasive than he had intended, resonating with John Winchester’s inflexible orders.

Green eyes raised resentfully, "You want the truth? _I don't think you can handle the truth..._ " she muttered darkly.

"Try me."

"Baseball ba-t,” her voice fractured on the last word.

 _('Oh crap...')_ Sam grimaced, then felt a brief surge of irritation, followed by relief.  
She was upset by the messy hunt, that was all.  
She was just too soft to be a part of their world.

"Michele, I know we didn't listen to your email and things got uh ... messy... But ... that's hunting. It was a siren. They hurt people, feed off suffering."

"I know that Sam. But she _suffered_ , It just ... I just... _you have no idea ... how much she suffered_ , ... before you shoved that knife in her heart.  
Baseball bats don't kill sirens..." her eyes were wide, as the words fell from her lips.

"Sirens hurt people, Michele." He chided. “If we hadn't gone to that bar last night it would have been some other person. She had to die."

"I'm not arguing that... _But Sam ... Baseball bats don't kill sirens_." she repeated, "I know she had to be put down. Rabid dogs need to be put down too, _but you don't beat them to splintered bone and mush with a baseball bat._ Not when it doesn't kill them.  
Dean, he... "

"Dean, did what he had to do!  
It wasn't Human. It was a _thing_ that looked human, that's all." He cut her off. Feeling defensive, Michele had no right to judge his brother.

"My eyes glow when a have vision, I don't think that's something prophets do, is it Sam?  
_Sliding into people's and things heads ... seeing and feeling everything they do, like some sort of parasite..._ I'm probably just a _thing_ , that looks human too." Her voice was flat and wavering.

"Yeah, we know you're not a prophet." Sam answered mildly then stopped. His brain finally catching up with the rest of what she'd said.

"S- seeing and F-feeling.... _inside things heads?_ " He repeated, his stomach plunging.

 _('You have no idea ... how much she suffered... before you shoved that knife in her heart.’)_ The words came into tight focus suddenly.  
But surely… she couldn’t have experienced _that_.

He felt sick, it was some cruel joke.

"What...? You...? It...? _Oh God! You're not saying..."_

A few more tears trailed down her cheeks.

She nodded.

Swallowed a few times before she could speak.

"It was… bad.  
Messed up my head, gives a whole new meaning to the 'eye of God' writer viewpoint… But, I’ll get my head straight." She mumbled rubbing at her chest, then seemed to realise what she was doing.

Stopped and looked away.

Sam stared at the screen feeling a lump in his throat, tried to get a grasp on the situation.  
_How must she feel towards Dean, and himself right now?_

Sam looked down at his hands, unable to meet her eyes on the screen any more.

There was siren blood rimming the nails on his ring and middle finger, he scraped at it with a thumb nail.

For a moment, it wasn't so hard to imagine that blood belonging to the woman on the other side of the world. They had done this to her, he was filled with a confusion of guilt.

"I'm sorry Sam, I shouldn't have told you."

"How can you...?"

( _'How can you say that? How can you even look at me... How can you stand this... you're saying ... Dean... with that bat...that you felt me stab you in the chest? And now you're sitting there saying you're sorry it upsets me?!!')_

She shot him a watery smile, as if she heard and understood all the things he hadn't said.  
"It’s probably a weird Christian thing Sammy, a combo of 'Father forgive them they know not what they do,’ and turning the other cheek.  
Guess it's part of the job description... God probably picked-"

" **You're not a prophet Michele!"** Sam cut her off, suddenly enraged. "That’s _not_ what prophets do. God didn't _pick you, God doesn't care, or know, or even give a damn!"_

Michele lifted her chin. "You know nothing Jon Sno-"

"I know plenty Michele!" He cut her off again. "I know how screwed up this is. Don't tell yourself you love us, you just can't. This is fucking with your head.  
We aren't good for you. You should run and not look back."

Her green eyes flinched.  
"I can't run Sam; _don't you get that?!_  
I can’t run from myself.  
I _know_ it's messed up, Sam... Do you, do you seriously think I like this? _That it's fun?_ That I _like_ experiencing death from all the angles.  
Or even invading your privacy? That I _like_ having you and Dean and _Things that hate and suffer_ shoved inside of me, until I can barely work out who I am?  
That I don't hate having to write it all?  
But I can't run from it.  
I have limited angles here, Hunter boy... I can live with it, or kill myself.  
I can love you or hate you, _but I can't get away from you._  
I can look for God and meaning in this, try to work out what's right...  
Or I can drive myself mad fighting it, _maybe become no better than the things you hunt._  
Those are my choices.  
Sam. I'm sorry, I don't want to fight with you, both you and Dean don't need any more strain."

" _We're fine_." Sam found himself grating defensively.

"I don't think Dean is, Sam. His head was…” she shuddered, “I think things with your Mom..."

"Dean and Mom are _fine_." He barked.

Except he knew they weren't, it was why he'd held back the information about where the British Men of Letters got the Colt, he'd told himself it was better and easier if Dean didn't know. That he was protecting his brother.

"Don't lie to yourself Sam. _I wish you'd just stop lying to Dean too!_ ”

"It's better this way."

"No, it's _easier_ ... right up until the truth comes out. Then things will go to _Hell_." Michele gave an exasperated huff. "You're just like my daughters, Sam. One lie leads to another, and another. How many lies have you had to tell Dean lately? It's a basic part of growing up Sam, learning to be responsible for your actions and admitting the truth... Even when it's hard."

Those green eyes regarded him from the computer screen, and part of Sam writhed under her gaze, resenting it.

"You're not my mother." He grated.

"No, I'm not. But I _do_ love you, and I do believe you can do what's _right_."

"I hate you." He answered without heat.

Michele snorted. "That’s a great way to _not_ sound like a sulky teenager Sam." She murmured in mild sarcasm, the blood smearing the corner of her lips curving up in a half smile.

" **Sammy! Are we hitting the road or what?** " Deans bellow from down the hall made them both jump.

"Uh, you've got blood on your face." Sam gestured at his own chin and mouth in demonstration.  
"You might want... Unless you want to..."

"Thanks. And No! I'm not avoiding him." Michele grabbed up a handful of baby-wipes and scrubbed at her face. Took off her glasses and polished away the tear stains quickly.

" **Com'on Sam! Daylights burning...** " Dean bounded through the door, stopped dead. "Mitch!"

Michele offered his brother a careful smile, there was stress around the edges, but it was fairly convincing.

"Hi Dean. Sam didn't tell me you were heading out again, you've only just gotten back, haven't you?"

"No rest for the wicked Mitch, Sammy's computer thing keeps digging up cases, we'd be gone already, but _princess_ here didn't like the way I smelled.”

Michele closed her eyes briefly, a small shiver thrummed through her.

"Both you and Sam look _really_ tired Dean, when was the last time you slept or ate properly Huh?  
Sam's _computer program_ doesn't care if you drive yourselves into the ground, _but I do._ The lecture they give special needs carers and new parents applies here. You need to _look after yourself as well, Okay?_ ... It's the long game, you need to guard against burn out, and remember you're more than a machine. Good decisions come from clear heads."

Sam looked across at his brother, waiting for Dean to brush off her words with a smart comment.

Deans face was oddly still. "Yes Ma'am. I’ll take care of him.”

“ _No Dean_ ,” Michele’s eyes seemed to hold Sam’s captive, “you need to take care of _each other_ , It’s a two-way street. _Maybe_ you could even listen to me occasionally…?”

“Sammy told you about his latest girlfriend huh?” Dean teased and shoved at Sam’s shoulder.

Both Michele and Sam winced.

“Dean… I have to go. But remember what I said… _Please_ eat and sleep.”

  
She said quietly, and logged off.


	60. Like Cats and Dogs

**JThe Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 60: Like Cats and Dogs**

_"Yeah, we know you're not a prophet."_ The words chased themselves round and round Michele's head over the next few hours. The longer she thought about her conversation with Sam, the more it ate at her.

Sam had sounded so completely dismissive. 

_"Yeah, we know you're not a prophet."_

Like it hardly mattered at all. 

He hadn't even reacted to the news, that her eyes lit up when she had a vision. 

Sure, he'd looked a bit sick and unhappy hearing that she'd had an on-stage seat to the siren’s death, but did he really care? Or was that simply unease over how deeply she saw? 

Sam hadn't argued with her description of herself, as a **_thing,_** it bothered her more than she cared to admit.

She had come to realise, in those past few hours how much she'd wanted and _needed_ for Sam to argue, to say she wasn’t a thing, that she was a _good person_. 

She'd wanted him to tell her that, _of course, she wasn't some sort of monster._

But he hadn't. 

And now, she found herself brooding over whether, if she wasn’t a prophet, was there anything else _good,_ she could be? 

Maybe _what_ she was didn't matter much to the Winchesters. They had worked with Lucifer and Crowley, against Amara, then Crowley and the Men of Letters to put Lucifer back in the cage. 

Someone who saw their future was a useful tool, (except when they ignored her advice, of course.)

If she was a monster and wasn't on their turf. Was in fact in small island nation, half a world away; there wasn't much the Winchester brothers could do.

Why would they waste their time worrying about it. 

And if she became a frothing lunatic thing, bent on massacring her family; It wasn’t like they could stop her, what could they actually do? When America was too big to dream of stopping every bad thing, and dead child. New Zealand was _far_ too far away, even with an angel on the pay roll... 

Suddenly, something hit her. 

And with it came the realisation that her readers weren't the only ones that had been treating her story as a work of fiction. 

She'd been doing it too, there were clues scattered through, "The Thing You Hate," she just hadn't seen.

Like the glowing eye thing, but more subtle.

A line she had written, and had read within the last few weeks, suddenly floated to the surface.

Things she hadn't really understood, became blazingly clear. 

A conversation between Sam and Lilly, the woman with the eyepatch, who’d hunted and killed the angels responsible for murdering her daughter.

_"I get wanting revenge. I really do. But...why wait so long?" Sam had asked._

_And Lilly had replied “I had no choice. Before the angels fell, before they lost their wings, there would've been no way to hunt them down."_

**_Lost their wings... the angels couldn't zap from place to place._ **

****

How had she missed it? 

It was why the plan to get Lucifer out of the President had required the help of a demon, Crowley king of Hell.

The chain of logic led onwards: if the angels were earthbound… then they could only get from place to place the same way people did.

That meant ... even if she _had_ been a prophet, she had **_never_** been in any danger of being abducted by angels, or taken from her family. (She was on an island nation for goodness sake, what were the angels going to do? Frog march her to an airport and drag her kicking and screaming onto a plane? She didn't even have a passport. So really...good luck with that.) 

**_Sam knew the angels were grounded._ **

Michele found herself frowning. **_Just like Sam knew but hadn't told her she wasn't a prophet._**

…ooo0ooo…

HobbitualPsychick, 10:18AM  
Sam how long have you known I'm not a prophet?

Sam glanced at the message. He hadn't expected to hear from Michele so soon.

But, chatting to her via Skype messenger would be a much better distraction from the five-hour drive to Nebraska than the non-existent scenery or his brothers stunted music selections. 

**10:19AM  
** **A bit less than two weeks.**

He typed without really thinking about it. 

HobbitualPsychick, 10:19AM  
Castiel can't teleport anymore? Nor can the other angels, am I right?

Apparently, Michele wanted to play a game of 20 questions.  
Sam guessed he could play along. Her questions were harmless. And he was pleased she seemed recovered from the stuff with the siren.

**10:20AM  
** **Lucifer can or could. He never fell. The others, including Cas got their wings damaged when they fell from heaven after Metatrons spell.**

Sam smirked to himself, remembering a moment that might amuse her.

**10:21AM**  
**Get this, this one-time Dean thought it would be funny to ask Cas if it hurt when he fell from heaven ... like the pickup line.... like a total ass.**  
**Cas just looked at him, totally dead serious and said. "Yes, it did Dean." Totally deadpan like he does.**  
**Dean didn't know how to respond, whether to apologise or explain about the pick up line. They just stood there staring at each other like they do, for the longest time, and there I was trying not to crack up.  
** **Speaking of Cas, we were thinking... next time he’s back in the bunker, you two should talk.**

There were several minutes without a reply, Sam wondered if Michele was doing her usual back-pedalling on the topic of Angels or if his phone had lost coverage.

HobbitualPsychick, 10:22AM  
Why?

Her response was uncharacteristically short.

**10:23AM  
** **Because Cas can help.**

Again, minutes ticked by.

HobbitualPsychick, 10:24AM  
How did you find out that I'm not a prophet, Sam?

Maybe he could get her to see Cas wasn't a threat, that he had information that could help, if she would just _talk to him._

**10:25AM  
** **Cas says there aren't any active prophets alive and no viable candidates born yet. Apparently, all the prophet’s names were seared into angel’s minds.**

**10:26AM  
** **Cas _can_ help you. Talking to him will help you understand, your belief that God has this larger plan for everything, it isn't real or helping you Michele. **

HobbitualPsychick, 10:27AM  
Speaking of not helping, I'm assuming you decided I didn't need to know the information about me not being a prophet ... **_For nearly two weeks._** Because - while I tell you everything and try to give you as much information, as soon as possible. You still seem to think I'm a mushroom.

Suddenly Sam was reminded of a suspected Bigfoot hunt, years before he left for Stanford.  
They'd been separated, searching for proof the witness account had any credibility, when he'd found his way onto a frozen pond, covered by a foot of snow. Totally unaware.   
Going had been easy and he'd been feeling pretty great, tramping over the packed snow with the brilliant blue-sky arched overhead. 

Right up until the moment when there was a sickening, "crack," below his feet, and the world had plunged out from under him. 

HobbitualPsychick, 10:30AM  
Sam let's get something straight, I may not see everything, and I may not be a real part of that world, but I'm not dumb. I know Castiel won’t be taking a break from his Nephilim hunt to hop a plane to New Zealand and fix me. I’m pretty sure he doesn't have a passport, either way he’s too busy trying to find the spawn of Satan.   
All you can really offer me is information, but let's be honest about that too, shall we?   
What info have you given me? Nothing!  
Not even, until I worked it out for myself, and asked you straight up - the fact the angels can't teleport. That they never could have taken me anywhere, even if I WAS a prophet.  
**But I'm not, apparently.** And AGAIN, you couldn't be bothered to share that information. You say we are friends, that you want to help me, but your actions say differently. How many times have we talked in the past two weeks???! UGH!  
Maybe it's because you can only see me as a tool or a dumb little pet.   
I'm not your pet, Samuel Winchester and if I was, I’d be a cat not a bloody dog.  
The thing about cats. They don't put up with crap or stick round if they don't like the way they're treated, **they leave.**  
I may HAVE to write the Winchester gospel. But I DON'T have to tell you what I see.   
You may think my faith isn't real, but it's because I'm a Christian that I tolerate and forgive. You think my faith is a delusion, that it isn't real? Well it's one that's helping you, isn't it?  
People living in glass houses shouldn't throw stones Sam.   
I'm beyond tired of your secrets, lies and disrespect.  
Don't worry though, if I have a vision, I'll let you know the details.   
I may be a _thing_ with glowing eyes; but to me, not telling someone something they need to know, it's the same as lying to them.  
And not telling someone something that might save their life is the same as murder.

Sam read through the block of words in a frozen rush, feeling shocked and half drowned under the torrent of them all. Unable to formulate a fitting argument or a response before the next sentence popped up.

HobbitualPsychick, 10:33AM  
Stay safe, Sam. I wish I didn't at times. But I do care about you both."

Michele logged off. 

…ooo0ooo…

Sam sat staring dumbly out his window for over an hour after the conversation with Michele.

_No, it wasn't a conversation, damn it!_

She'd demanded answers, jumped to conclusions and unloaded on him, then run.

It was frustrating as hell.

She made it sound... it wasn't like ... didn't she get... 

_Should he send her a message to respond to her words? Or leave her to cool off?_

Sam glanced at his brother for the hundredth time wondering what Dean would say, but was reluctant to share.  
_(‘What lies is she talking about Sam?’ Dean would want to know, because Dean knew she wasn’t the kind of women that made everything into a soap opera, she has shown herself to be pretty reasonable.  
__And that would bring up things he didn’t want to tell Dean, about the siren and the Men of letters.)_

 _  
_Huffing a sigh, he let the world outside of his window wash by him to the strains of Metallica's, "Some kind of Monster," and Deans gravel voiced rendition of the lyrics.

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Qu4Ass6abo>

_('This is the tongue that whips you down  
__This is the burden of every man_ _  
These are the screams that pierce your skin  
__This is the voice of, silence no more.’)_

A rough counterpoint to the anger/ guilt/ resentment that slip-slid underneath his skin. 

_('This is the test of flesh and soul_  
_This is the trap that smells so good_  
_This is the flood that drains these eyes_  
_These are the looks that chill, to the bone.’)_

It was all he could do not to groan and beg for mercy under the onslaught. 

Each word from his brother’s mouth and the impala's speakers resonated with the resentful pounding of his anger, the twisting avoidance in the pit of his stomach and that nagging brush of guilt he was unwilling to examine. 

When his phone rang, it was a relief and surprise to see his mother’s name come up.  
Usually she rang Dean.   
He felt a small curl of warmth and connection flex inside, maybe working with the Men of Letters _could_ become a bridge, the beginning of something good.

"Sam?" 

"Hey Mom, how're you?" He greeted warmly.

"Mick would like to know how far away from Sheridan county you are."

Sam felt a moment of disappointment, it was work stuff. Sam glanced across and met his brothers questioning eyes, felt the need to hedge and watch what he said.

"Yeah, we have another case, missing camper, animal attack, we're…" Sam caught sight of the flashing squad car lights through the trees, "uh... pretty much here now. How are things with you Mom?"

Deans phone rang, Dean answered it.

"We've just returned from Akron, a haunting case. It was easy. Open and shut. We spent more time traveling.  
Mick would like to know if you require anything."

"Oh, really? that's great, Mom. Oh. - No, we're — we're fine. We, uh... " So much he wanted to say, to share, about the past few hunts, maybe even about his current situation, could he talk to Mom about how he’d screwed up with Michele, what to do about her, maybe the Men of Letters...

Mary broke into his thoughts. "Sam, I have to go, Ketch wants input on the report. I love you both." Mary Winchester's voice was suddenly rushed and closed off; her declaration of love tacked nervously onto the end.

  
"Yeah. Love you, too… Right, uh bye." He responded, feeling hollow, as his mother hung up in his ear.

After they pulled up and both brothers climbed out of the impala.

  
"All right, Cas. Let us know." Dean finished his call, as they walked towards the crime scene. 

"You first." Dean invited.

"Mom just finished working a haunting in Akron." 

  
"The Brits?" 

  
"Yeah." Sam answered shortly, feeling uncomfortable, looked away.

"Great. Who you gonna call? Douchebusters." Dean muttered with a sour smile.

  
"What about you?" Sam queried with a sigh shoved his hands into his pockets. 

"That was Cas. He's in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho. Someone's killing angels.... Again." 

......

“This is dumb. It’s a dumb idea.” Dean muttered.

  
“Listen, Gwen saw something kill her boyfriend, and she thinks it’s coming for her next. We just gotta tell her—”

  
“Tell her what?”

Sam sighed in response to his brother’s demand.

“No, seriously, Sam, what are you gonna say? “Hi, my name is Sam Winchester. This is my much handsomer brother, Dean. We hunt monsters.  
Oh, and that guy you were banging? We're pretty sure he made a deal with a demon, so a hellhound came and dragged his soul to Hell. But you? You're cool. And since there's nothing around for us to kill, peace out.”

  
“You done? Yeah, we don’t say that, Dean. We’ll say something that’ll … give her peace. You know, help her sleep at night.”

  
“Oh, so we lie?” Dean rumbled.

  
Sam sighed, reminded uncomfortably of Michele. “…Yeah, a— a lot.” He replied, clearing his throat and rung the doorbell.   
  
A pretty but worn looking brunette opened the door, her eyes were raw and ringed with shadows.

“Gwen Hernandez? Uh, Agents Baker and Clapton. FBI. May we come in?” Dean began the spiel.

…ooo0ooo…

  
“Oh, yeah. She’s gonna sleep like a baby.” Dean muttered sarcastically, after Gwen tossed them out.

Sam had done his. ‘It was a bear and its dead, so you’re safe,’ stich. Apparently, Gwen knew what she’d seen and would rather keep believing that, than settle for a nice little lie. And with that, the case was over.

Until a scream came from behind them. spinning them round to go barreling straight back to the house.

Apparently, they’d been wrong. - Not over after all.

Gwen was pinned to the floor, screaming when they burst into the room.

Claw marks gouged the wood floor, and imprints of giant paws were sunk into the rugs deep pile, straddled over the girl’s body.

The carpet shredded on either side of Gwen’s head.

Dean fired, heard yelps of pain.

Then the window exploded outwards as the hellhound beat a hasty retreat.

…ooo0ooo… 

And now, here Sam was sitting across a table from Gwen, with the girl looking at him with shocked, accusing, brown eyes.

Eyes which asked why he hadn’t just told her the truth to begin with.

“Gwen, that, um, that thing was a hellhound.” Sam began. 

  
“A… _what_?”

  
“Hellhound. Kind of hard to explain.” Dean offered from his perch across the room, “Uh, basically, giant, invisible hounds from Hell. _Ha! Wasn't hard at all_.” Dean chuckled to himself.

  
“So, you guys are not cops, _are you?”_

  
“No, not exactly.

Um...My name is Sam. That's my brother Dean. And we hunt monsters.” Sam felt a twist of irony finding himself echoing Dean’s earlier sarcastic tirade.

  
“And we've tangled with hellhounds in the past. Goofer dust'll keep 'em out. A demon knife or an angel blade, that'll kill 'em.” Dean splashed a bucket load of information at Gwen’s feet, while Sam found himself shooting her an apologetic grimace.

  
“Uh… wait, _so, why did you tell me that Marcus got killed by a bear?”_ Gwen asked.

  
“Make you feel better.” Dean answered, pointing at Sam. “It was his idea.”

Sam sighed “Listen, I know this sounds _insane_ —"

  
“It does.” Gwen conceded. “But… like I said, I know what I saw. And what I saw was insane.”

  
“Right. Now this is awkward, but, um… hellhounds only come after people who sold their souls… To a demon.” Sam began uncomfortably. 

“So about ten years ago, did you really want something? Like… I don’t know, a Hello Kitty backpack or the death of an enemy?” Dean continued, with much less tact.

“No.” Gwen answered sounding puzzled, not at all guilty or defensive. 

“What about Marcus? Did he… Would he—" 

“No.” Gwen answered firmly.

  
“Hmm. Great… So, what _the hell_?” Dean muttered.

  
“I don’t know.” Sam answered. “But I do know who we can ask.”

…ooo0ooo…

_“What the hell do you want?”_ Crowley’s voice growled through the cell phone’s speaker, full of angry venom.

  
“All right, Peaches, I get that you’re still upset about the whole, uh…” Dean waved his hand dismissively, as he attempted to sooth the King of Hell's ruffled feathers.

  
“Upset? No. I’m _totally over_ how you and your little band of misfits sent my son back in time _... to die!”_ The monarch hissed.

Gwen raised her eyebrows at Sam and shifted uncomfortably.

  
Dean glanced over at Gwen, realized maybe this was a discussion best not done with Gwen listening in on Crowley’s ranting. Took Crowley off speaker.

….

  
“Okay, look, that was totally Gavin’s call. _All right?_

You know what? We have a situation here.”

  
“Oh, well, in that case... _Bye.”_

  
“Hellhounds, Crowley.” Dean cut in. “One of your mutts is going after folks who didn’t sell their souls.”

  
“Not possible.” Crowley grated.

  
“You sure about that?”

  
There was a pause, Crowley lowered the phone and addressed someone. 

“My hounds…

You have anything to tell me?” 

“Well… we didn’t wanna bother you…” a faint fawning voice replied. “It was Ramsey. She got out, my Lord…”

Bingo!

  
“Have the kennel guards killed… Painfully!” Crowley snapped.

  
Dean rolled his eyes at Gwen and Sam, mimed Crowley yammering on, with one hand. 

No big loss, one less demon.

  
“I’ll be right…” Crowley growled in Dean’s ear, then appeared in Gwen’s living room.

“-Here.” 

“Mm.” Sam cleared his throat, glanced at Gwen expecting her to freak out. She didn’t.

“You miss me?” Crowley asked coyly.

.....

“Well, why is she after Gwen?” Dean asked, after everyone was up to date and Crowley had told a riveting tale about where Hellhounds came from.

  
“Ask her.” Crowley challenged.

  
“I… I don't… um… When it attacked us, I did hit it... With an ax.” 

  
“Well, there you go.” Crowley answered. “The bitch does tend to hold a grudge. So, we either kill Ramsey, or the hound eats her.” Crowley clapped his hands together. _“Fun.”_ He enthused dryly.

  
“Wait a second.” Sam raised a hand _, “We?”_

  
Crowley shrugged as if it was self-evident. “Pup like that out and about is not good for business. Makes it look like I’m not in control. But that mutt’s head mounted on my wall? Good for the brand. So, _yes, Moose_. For now, _“We.”_

Crowley looked positively chipper.

  
Dean snorted “Great. So, we have a hellhound who's gunning for revenge, and it's personal.  
Ahhh! Just when I thought this gig couldn't get any weirder... “

  
Crowley chuckled, “Oh! It can always get weirder.”


	61. Ghosts Make Our Cups of Tea

**Chapter 61: Ghosts Make Our Cups of Tea**

Back at the campsite where Ramsey had attacked Marcus, Dean sorted through the impala’s trunk, he found what he was looking for quickly, as his thoughts darted this way and that, like a school of tropical fish trapped behind glass at a pet store. 

Hellhounds.

They had learnt so much since their first encounter with them in Missouri.  
But their learning curve had been a gory trail of guilt, horror, and loss.

Dean closed his eyes and stuffed those thoughts down deep, where he wouldn’t have to look at them; and turned back to the matter at hand.

“So, hellhounds are invisible to humans… unless you sold your soul — and they're after you.” he slamming the trunk, trying to sound business-like, handed Sam his pair of glasses.

“Or, uh, you're wearing a pair of these.” Sam held up his glasses. “They're glasses treated with holy fire.” Sam continued lecturing looking into Gwen’s not-totally-convinced eyes.

Crowley watched with a superior smirk, course _he_ could see hellhounds.

Dean didn’t like the plan much, but at least it should keep Sam and Gwen out of harm’s way. 

“All right, Crowley and I are gonna hit the woods, see if we can't track down Cujo. You stick with Sam, he'll keep you safe.” Sam nodded agreement, looked strained.

  
“Okay.” Gwen replied shortly, got into the car.  
  
Dean grimaced unhappy, shooting Sam a worried look. “Take care of her.” He demanded, eyes fixed beseechingly on his brother’s face.

“Of course.” Sam returned his look solemnly, “Dean, look, even if Ramsey circles back, as long as we keep moving, Gwen's… gonna… be… just…” 

At the mention of the girl’s name Dean grimaced in irritation, that was when Sam _finally_ caught up.

He rolled his eyes and shook his head, with a dismissive laugh. “Huh! You're talking about the car!” 

  
“You tend to ride the brakes.” He defended.

  
“Dean, I know how to drive.” Sammy argued, though Dean _knew_ that was true _only to a point_.

“I'm just saying.” He argued. “...Okay, just imagine she's a… a beautiful woman—“

  
“Oh, come o-n!” Sam turned away from him, refusing to listen.

“A beautiful, beautiful woman.” Dean motioned to his Baby’s glossy curves.

  
“Get out of here. I'm _done_.” Sam held out a hand and fled inside the impala trying to escape Dean’s useful advice, just like he _always_ did … Sam never did get, how a man felt about wheels, she wasn’t just a car…

“Sam... “

Dean stared at his Baby’s ink and chrome lines anxiously.

Crowley glowered at him, contemptuously amused. 

“Ewww!” He disparaged, with a leer.

The douche King didn’t get it either; had to make a perversion out of a man’s dedication.

“Come on.” He muttered with a wave, and refused to watch his brother drive off.

…ooo0ooo…

The knock on the door startled her when it came. Michele opened the door, expecting to see a courier with a pile of boxes of alarm parts, for her husband. Or someone with a clipboard in their hands, and a cliched patter about how this power company or that, would save her family x-hundred dollars off their yearly power bill. 

  
Instead, a tall lady in her early 60's with short no-nonsense iron grey hair stood there, holding a disposable plastic plate with a chocolate cake balanced on it. 

  
  
Shona, Michele's brain offered helpfully, Shona from church.   
Shona attended the same church Michele's family (in theory) attended. Had also come to the bible study group Michele had ended up running years ago (before autism, a youngest child with delayed development... and of course, the tendency to leak blood and have visions.

A very different Michele, one that it hurt a bit to remember, truth be told.)   
  
"Shona! What a surprise," Michele greeted with a slightly puzzled smile. "It's, nice, to see you."   
  
"You and your family have been in my thoughts and prayers ...a lot, lately.... So, I thought I'd bake you a cake." Shona finished placing the cake into Michele's hands, looking every bit as surprised to be standing on Michele's doorstep, as Michele was to see her there.   
  
Michele felt a flicker of amusement, she'd been where Shona was standing.

Having someone's name laid on your heart, a niggly little prickle in the back of your mind which reminds you to pray for a random someone; but then expects you to do _something more._

Maybe, you try to ignore it, tell yourself it’s your imagination; because you are too busy or don't really know them ... but it doesn't go away.   
So, in the end.... you bake a cake or a make a meal and turned up on the person’s doorstep feeling awkward, uncertain and nervous ... But by then you are willing. Because deep down you _know_ you are _supposed_ to be there.   
And sometimes you'll get an answer of why you are there; and sometimes you won't. But in the end, it doesn't matter, because even if you don't know, God does.  
  
"This is really nice of you Shona, would you like to come in, and have a coffee?"   
  
It was the first time Shona had visited her home and Michele looked around a little embarrassed, noted the two basket loads of clean washing half spilled across the couch, waiting to be folded. Toys, books and colouring in supplies scattered everywhere and the dirty plates and cups from lunch still sitting on a towel in the middle of the lounge floor, (from an improvised picnic lunch, that Chris had wanted.)   
  
Flushing a little in embarrassment, she imagined what her messy home looked like through a stranger’s eyes; and hastily gathered up the dirty dishes in one hand, while balancing the cake in the other.   
  
"Sorry for the," a gesture round the living room, "...mess. Some days... don't go to plan," she explained awkwardly.  
On the up side, at least Shona's visit hadn’t happened during the Siren vision. It paid to be grateful for small mercies...   
  
Shona waved a hand dismissively, "I raised three children, Michele. I remember what it was like. And that was without everything I hear you have on your plate."  
  
Michele put the cake down on the kitchen table, filled the kettle and put it on to boil. Wondering what people said about her family, and what people said she had on her plate.  
  
"So, thanks again for the cake, my lot go through baking like there's no tomorrow... Umm tea, coffee or hot chocolate?” She tilted two coffee mugs towards her guest.  
  
"Coffee would be nice, black like my hair... _used to be._  
I haven't seen you at church recently," Shona began.   
  
Michele tensed, she couldn't help it, awash with a sudden guilt ... it _had been_ over a month since her family had darkened the church's doorway, but... it was so HARD with a child that couldn't cope with noise and strangers, would randomly had a meltdowns or become a curledup shaking mess, over things other kids found fun ...

And all that was _without_ adding all the other _crazy_ , Sam and Dean, the random visions and bleeding thing.

She just ... _couldn't_ cope with... _anything else._  
  
Some of her thoughts, and feeling of drowning, must have shown on her face.   
"I know we should... " she began, staring at the coffee cups intently as she spooned, poured and stirred.  
  
Shona took the Michele’s hand in both of her own; stilling her motion with strong sinew and bone under that fragile old lady skin.

"No! Don't apologize ... It’s okay! I have no idea what you and your family are going through, and I'm not here to give you a lecture on church attendance... God doesn't want to give you more burdens. 

He cares and wants you to know you're loved and that He's _Proud of you_. Maybe it doesn't feel like it, but God gave you these boys for a reason ... and you can, and _are,_ giving them what they need to get through this. To do what they are supposed to in God's plan.  
I know it seems unfair ... to have s-o much put on you, but you were formed for this purpose...”

Michele looked up into Shona’s kind brown eyes as she spoke.

“It says in the bible that God never gives us more than we can handle."   
  
She felt tears fill her eyes. "I'm not so sure about that... I don't... I'm not...   
_God thinks too much of me_.  
I'm not strong enough, good enough, kind enough, patient enough, I lose my temper and get so angry some days, say stuff I shouldn't.  
I don't know what I'm doing... not with .... _any of it!_  
And sometimes I think I'm doing more harm than good.” She articulated brokenly, thinking of things with Sam and Dean, as much as with her own sons, a torrent of tears welled spilled over.   
  
Shona led her to the lounge, sat her down, and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, speaking softly and soothingly, letting her cry. 

  
  
"God never chooses already 'enough' people, Michele, you’ve read the Bible, you _know_ that.   
He makes us enough. _His grace is the enough,_ His power is made perfect in our weakness.  
Maybe that's why I'm here, to remind you it's okay to be human... that God's has this in hand, even if you feel like you don't, my dear."  
  
"I'm sorry," Michele muttered miserably, a few minutes later, l finding some much-needed control, and wiped her tears with the back of her hand.

She felt like an complete idiot for breaking down, she really didn't know Shona that well.

 _How mortifying._  
  
"There's nothing to be sorry for, I remember something similar happening to me once. I was about your age, and I had an awful fight with my step daughter Kelsey, I was at my ropes end.   
Doris Silver turned up with a pie, and I fell to bits all over her, not a few tears like you honey .... really snotty disgusting sobbing." Shona chuckled. " _That lady_ was a _real_ saint of God. She handed me one of her embroidered hankies and told me what I'm going to tell you.   
You aren't enough! _And you don't have to be!_ Not by yourself. Let God use what you've got and leave it in His hands. You feel like you're in a battle you can't win, right now, but _you're not alone_ , and you are not the only one responsible for the people you love, God is too, because He Loves your dear boys, _more than you ever could!_  
You can’t lose if you let God do his work. Your job is to keep going.  
Love them the best you can when they aren't lovable. It's okay to get mad. -Doris said all that to me, and I believe it now- sometimes you need to get mad.   
But temper it with love, always. Use it to help them and yourself grow. Say sorry and admit it when you have messed up, and forgive them when they mess up.   
That is the Godliest thing you can do. It's _so_ very important that you don't give up. Your boys need someone who doesn't walk out or give up on them."   
  
Shona smiled at her and patted her knee and Michele had the strangest sensation, like the whole conversation was a double exposed photo.  
As if the woman before her was relaying a coded message. 

…ooo0ooo…

Sam found himself silently enjoying driving the impala through the night, despite the situation and being hyper aware of every time his foot touched the brake pedal.

“I'm sorry.” Gwen broke the silence, in a quiet voice. 

  
Sam looked across at her. “For what?”

  
“This. It's all my fault.”

“Gwen, this is _not your fault._ ” He answered soothingly.

“Yes, it is. What happened to Marcus...”

In side glances, Sam saw Gwen close her eyes, and grimace as if she was remembering the attack again, looking sick. 

“Pull over- _Please_.” She demanded grimly.

“Okay.” Sam agreed, swerving to the side of the road, thinking how unimpressed Dean would be if the girl puked inside his _beautiful, beautiful_ .... car.

Gwen lurched out of the car, staggered a few steps and vomited.  
  
After a few moments she got back in, wiping her mouth and face.

She was weeping silently and looked wrung out, shaky, and pale in the darkness.

“You okay?” He asked hesitantly, wondering if he should reach out and lay a hand on her shoulder, or something.

“I... “Gwen sighed wearily, “I don't think I even know what, “okay,” means anymore.” 

Sam looked away as Gwen took a deep breath.

“Marcus… going camping was my idea. I took him out there, even though I knew. I knew it was _over_.” Gwen sniffed “I liked Marcus. He was sweet and kind. And he _loved_ me.” Sam felt a weird uncomfortable shiver at her words. Gwen inhaled deeply “More than I _ever loved him._ More than…” another shaky pained breath. “If I'd just told him…”  
“If I… _Why couldn't I just tell him the truth?_ ” She demanded of herself harshly.

  
“Gwen...” Sam began, but Gwen ignored him.

“Yeah, but I didn't.” Her voice broke, “I **_lied_**. I lied to make things _easier_.” Gwen curled in on herself crying.

Sam swallowed and looked down, another conversation echoed at the back of his mind 

_(“Don't lie to yourself Sam. I wish you'd stop lying to Dean too."_

_"It's better this way”_

_" No, it's easier...”)_

Michele and her obsession with telling the truth was becoming a ghost, one that haunted his thoughts, and he couldn't salt and burn it. 

“I… I'm sorry. I…” Gwen’s voice broke him from his revere. “We should go.” 

Sam sighed, “Right.” 

As he went to start the car, there was a flash of red in the darkness. He jolted back in shock seeing glowing red eyes and the there-but-not-there form of a giant Hellhound, as it appeared in front of the car.

“What?” 

  
“She’s here.” Sam told the girl beside him grimly.

  
Ramsey snarled, then the hood of the car dented; the car rocked and the windscreen crazed with spider web cracks, the Hellhound had leaped onto the car.

  
Gwen whimpered, cringing down in her seat, letting out small breathless cries of horror, with each impact. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay. Stay calm.” Sam soothed, as the car rocked and the blows continued.

  
“Oh, my god!” Gwen whimpered, her eyes wide with terror.

Sam stared into the glowing red eyes through the windscreen, praying silently the glass didn’t give out.

  
He took a breath, “All right.” He ordered himself firmly in a facsimile of Dad and Dean’s competent tones.

He needed to figure out a plan. 

The Hellhound made its way over the length of the car, testing for a way in.

Sam watched its progress over the roof, onto the trunk and off the car.

  
“We should leave.” Gwen urged desperately. 

“No, no, no, Gwen. I gotta take care of this.” He scrambled to find an angel blade in the weapon’s duffle, heart hammering. “It’s the only way she’ll stop.”

  
As he pulled out the blade, there was another impact on the car’s rear and the back window crazed with cracks.

Well, now he knew where the Hellhound was.

“Stay in the car. Stay in the car!” He urged

  
“Okay.” Gwen agreed, watching him slide out of the car and slam the door.

Sam backed away from the car, eyes on Ramsey, blade at the ready, his heart seeming to leap into his throat.

In that moment, he was reminded _horribly_ of the hell trials and the chaos after.

Realizing half of its prey was now in the open, the hound leaped down, off the car and turned to face him, rumbling a deep growl of anticipation.

Sam attempted to brace himself as the creature lunged towards him, then leaped, but it moved faster than he anticipated, slamming into his chest. It was like being hit by a small car.

He was thrown over backwards. 

The holy-fire glasses flew from his face.

Two giant paws landed heavy and immovable on his upper arms, pinning the hand he held the angel blade in, uselessly, to the road.  
As if taunting him, the hound lingered over him growling menacingly.  
It’s breath like old carrion and brimstone, burning his eyes, and leaving him gasping.

Helpless he awaited a mauling like the one that had ended his brother’s life.

Then, suddenly, there was a hollow sound of impact, a yelp, and suddenly the hound was gone. 

Sam scrambled to his feet.

Realized what had happened. Seeing Gwen standing there panting in terror, hanging onto their old green cooler like grim death.

Sam backed towards the girl, eyes scanning desperately for some sign of where the invisible monstrosity was. 

There! Hot brimstone breath in the chill night air, turning to vapor.

Sam watched each pant of breath stalking closer, then as the creature leaped forward, he stepped in to meet it. 

Stabbed upwards with the angel blade.

He felt the resistance, then the wash and splatter of black blood across his skin. 

Pitiful yelping. 

Then silence, as the creature fell away.

Sam shivered as he looked down at himself, feeling the rapidly cooling blood seeping into his clothing and coating his hands.

_(“Rabid dogs need to be put down,”)_ a soft voice brushed through his memory like a sigh.

Glancing at Gwen, and smiling as reassuringly as he could; Sam pulled out his phone to call his brother, and tell him the job was done.

…ooo0ooo…

  
Dean stood there, hands in his pockets, surveying the damage to the Impala, silently.

  
Gwen and Crowley stood back, removed from the two hunters, as if distancing themselves from the silent death rays which emanated from the elder, as the younger stood, slumped, awaiting his brothers wrath.

“And his is why you don’t drive!” Dean declared with an angry gesture.  
  
Sam grunted and rolled his head, but didn’t argue with his brother’s assessment. 

“So... it’s over?” Gwen asked in a small voice, trying to deflect attention from her savior. 

“It’s over.” Crowley assured her, while eyeing the damage to the impala somberly.

  
Suddenly, Gwen threw her arms round Crowley and hugged him.

“Thank you!” She gushed.

Dean looked nearly as uncomfortable as the King of Hell did. But Sam couldn’t help a huff of quiet amusement. Impulsive little brunettes and their weird impulses to hug or say ‘Thank you’... I was nuts.

Except… for a moment, Crowley’s face softened and he got almost the same look Dean got in the face of one of Michele’s gestures of warmth. 

“Yeah. Ah, dog dead. Must be going.” Crowley muttered uncomfortably.

And maybe it was remembering Michele’s implication that he took the people that helped them for granted. Or _maybe_ it was the urge to increase Crowley’s discomfort.

But for a second… he really...

  
“Hey, Crowley. Wait a second. Um… .... Thank you.” He said awkwardly.

  
Crowley stared at him for a long moment, then gave him a tight-lipped half twitch.

  
It could almost have been… a smile.

Then Crowley disappeared without another word. 

Sam scoffed and shook his head, while the silence stretched awkwardly.

“He seems nice.” Gwen offered.

  
“Yeah.” Dean replied sarcastically, with a fake smile and a nod, looked at his brother sideways like he’d gone certifiably nuts.

  
Sam cleared his throat. 

Dean’s eyes slid back to his car. “Let’s get in. Hopefully, it still runs.” He groused unhappily.

…ooo0ooo…

Michele rubbed bleary eyes and stared at the computer screen with a sigh. 

She'd been awake most of the night. 

Writing. 

Thank goodness, her husband was away again.

The problem with her job as _not-prophet_ and writer of the Winchester gospels was that she usually only got something approaching a decent picture of what happened with Sam and Dean weeks after the fact. 

Yes, she got her visions of the future, but it was only after she wrote/read her fic that the pieces got fitted together in anything resembling an actual picture and that was usually weeks in arrears. 

It made sense and she was glad, because if anyone found her story, and wanted to use it against the Winchester brothers they'd be weeks behind the gun. 

Apparently, that _posting schedule_ was going to continue. 

But the story of the past few weeks, chapters and chapters of it, were now sitting in neat black and white word documents on her hard drive. Mocking or reassuring her, she couldn't tell. 

Hindsight was twenty-twenty vision.

An outside perspective was a great and terrible thing, especially when you were forced to write it yourself.

While she may have been (sort of) right she was also _(quite)_ wrong too, because a vast percentage of her anger had been rooted in thinking Sam didn’t give a damn.

And she could see now, that he did.

Seeing that, sapped most of her anger and self-righteousness.

At the end of the day, her friend Sam was human. He and his brother were just trying to make the world a better, safer place, using the tools they had.

The best way they knew how.

She _was_ one of those tools.

Since Shona’s visit, she believed more strongly that she _was_ supposed to help them.

She still didn’t like a lot of Winchester methods, (thought they were stupid and wrong to be honest,) but looking at things clearheadedly, she knew Sam really didn’t know any better. 

He didn’t _mean_ any of it. 

Most of the things she objected to could be traced back to how John had raised them. Withholding information and using people, (even if you did give a damn about them,) while taking them for granted. Making promises that got forgotten under the pressures of the _more important job,_ of hunting things and saving people: The family business. 

That was the status quo of Sam’s life.

It was a case of, “ghosts make our cups of tea,” a phrase coined by author and clinical psychologist Nigel Latta;  
that meant we do what our parents or other role models did, (unless we can recognise that, and try to change.) We often don’t even notice we are doing it ... just like most people drink their tea or coffee the same way their parents did. 

On the surface, Sam was the ‘nicer’ ‘more well balanced’ Winchester brother. 

He had rejected his father’s ideals on the surface, but under it he was _still_ his father’s son.  
Doing what he’d been raised to think of as normal. 

Michele sighed and rubbed at her gritty eyes again, feeling physically and emotionally exhausted.

She understood Sam and the flow of events better now. But couldn’t help wondering if it changed anything. 

She had always promised herself she wouldn’t be like her mother... but here she was; tied to a messed-up guy who took her for granted and was prone to violence, telling herself it was Gods will, and making excuses for him. 

Sam _was_ a better man than her father, (and a better man than his own.) 

But there was an uncomfortable twist of irony to it.

Her ghosts weren’t even dead, but they brewed a mighty fine cup of tea, and she’d never had the luxury of lying to herself. She was more trapped than her mother had _ever_ been.

Despite her angry words to Sam, she was uncertain if she could bring herself to turn away… which left her dreading watching herself in the mirror, as she drank down every drop.

Michele shut down the computer and sought her bed, wishing for her husband’s steady warmth beside her, to keep the darkness of her thoughts at bay.

…ooo0ooo… 

The Winchester’s were making their way down the bunker stairs from the garage when Dean’s phone rang. 

“Cas, what’s up?” 

  
“Hey, I think I have a lead on Kelly Kline.” 

  
“Yeah?” Dean asked encouragingly.

“She’s with Dagon, Prince of Hell.” Cas answered shortly.

“All right! What do we know about him?” Sam asked.

“Actually, it’s a her. And not much. It’s just rumors and stories.  
Dagon is mostly known for her psychotic savagery.” 

  
Both brothers shared a look. “Great, so where’s Kelly?”

Well, she _was_ in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. _Now_... I’m not sure...” Cas sounded tired, almost depressed.

“All right, well, we’ll spread the word. Let us know if you find anything.” Dean answered.

“Of course.” Cas hung up. 

Dean looked thoughtful, stared off into the middle-distance, lips pursed and eyes narrowed.

  
“He sound weird to you?” He asked after a moment.

  
Sam’s phone buzzed before either could pursue the thought further.

  
Sam turned his back to his brother to check it, guiltily.

“Mmm, is that your computer talking to you again?” 

Sam stared at a incoming call from “Frodo” (Mick Davies) for a moment before refusing the call.

 _(‘How many lies have you had to tell Dean lately?’)_ The ghost of Michele’s voice asked softly.

Sam took a breath looked down at his phone again, feeling a flare of resolve.

 _“_ Uh… No. Um…” he began painfully. “It's, uh… Mick Davies.”

  
“What?!” 

“Dean… I don't have a computer program feeding me cases.”

Dean stared at him silently, as he stumbled his words onward.

“I-I, uh… Gwen.. Every job we've worked in the last two weeks.” He inhaled deeply. “They've come from the British Men of Letters.”

  
Dean looked away, tossed his own phone aside.  
“Really?” He asked, one hand on his hip.

“Yeah. I didn't tell you, 'cause I know how much you hate them.”

  
“No, _we_ hate them. _Us. Together_.” Dean corrected defensively.

  
“I-I get that. Yeah, I do. But -- but...” Sam shrugged his shoulders and gestured widely. “Dean, because of Mick and his guys, the Alpha Vampire is _dead_.”

Dean looked aside _(probably thinking, it was more down to Sam and Mom.)_

“They get results.” Sam argued, “I don't like them either, but-- but if-- if we can save people, then it…”

Sam took a breath and stopped, looking at his brother with shining eyes.  
“Either way, I-I shouldn't have lied to you. And…” he shook his head hangdog. “I'm sorry, man. I-I...” Sam bit his lip, running out of words.

  
Dean shook his head, studying the floor at his feet.

“Well, okay.”

  
Sam looked surprised, stared at his brother. “Okay?”

  
Dean took a breath, met Sam’s eyes. “What do you want me to say?  
Do I like it? No.  
Do I trust them? _Hell, no!_  
But you're right...” Dean swallowed before rushing on.

“We work with people we don't trust all the time. I mean, hell, I just Liam Neeson'd it up with _Crowley_. So, if you wanna give this a shot, then…” Dean nodded to himself. “Fine. But the minute— and I mean _the second_ —“ Dean gestured sharply for emphasis, “something feels off, **_we bail!”_**

“Yeah. Of course.  
Deal.” Sam agreed quickly.

  
Sam’s phone began vibrating again.

“It's Mick.” Sam offered holding up his phone to show his brother as it buzzed on.

  
“Pick it up.” Dean grated.

  
“This is Sam…” he answered the phone, locking eyes with his brother.

  
…ooo0ooo…

Sam huffed a breath of relief as he hung up the phone from his conversation with Mick, he wasn’t sure if he could have coped with another job quite so soon.

“Well, that was fun.” Dean grumbled sarcastically. “If we’re finished with our new limey playmates, I’m gonna go start workin' on those dents…”

“Dean, just a sec…. So, ummm there’s something else…”

Dean winced. “What?!”

“Michele’s kinda pissed at me…”

“What’d you do?”

Sam explained, showed him the transcript of their last Skype conversation.

“Well Sam, that’s what you get for picking up strays’, keepin’ secrets and not tellin’ your brother stuff…. So… good luck with that.”

Dean smirked unsympathetically, slapping his little brother on the back.

Walked away with more spring in his stride than Sam considered that the situation merited.


	62. Viewing Angles

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 62: Viewing Angles**

Sam Winchester wasn’t a coward, no one could accuse him of being a coward.

He’d willingly jumped into small box in Hell with the Devil, knowing the kind of torment he was in for.

Sam Winchester wasn’t someone who backed down from an argument either. If he had been, his teen aged years as John Winchester’s son would have played out differently. 

But he could admit to himself he’d been avoiding this particular confrontation, would still be avoiding it if it wasn’t for Dean’s mocking grin as he had asked this morning at breakfast, _oh so causally_ , how Sam’s little kitty cat was. 

Dean hadn’t said a thing, just cocked a smug eyebrow, at his clenched jaw and lack of answer, but he’d felt all Dean’s mocking condemnation. 

So here he was staring at the Skype app, thinking it was just as well he’d never became a lawyer, considering he couldn’t seem to build a defence case for shit. 

Maybe that was because he’d long since started to see the prosecutions side.

Maddeningly, a liturgy from one of Pastor Jim’s services floated into his mind, bringing with it memories of the man himself, at the front of his church. 

Standing there, tall, dark, dressed in black; low voice shaping words redolent with the harmonics of authority and mercy.

The scent of dark red wood polish, candle wax, and communion wine layered over everything; while the glow of sunlight slanting through the stained-glass windows turned the moment into something verging on holy.

_“Merciful God,_  
we have sinned in what we have thought and said,  
in the wrong we have done and in the good we have not done.  
We have sinned in ignorance:  
we have sinned in weakness:  
we have sinned through our own deliberate fault.  
We are truly sorry.”

Sam huffed a breath of self-mockery and ran a hand nervously through his hair.

When was the last time he thought of Jim Murphy and his faith? 

He supposed it made sense.

Michele’s and Jim’s faith were in the same god.

He _knew_ the comments he’d made about god were the thing that had pissed Michele off most, what had pushed her over the edge.

At one point— no, he admitted; maybe at _a few points_ in his life ... he’d shared that faith, in his own flawed way. 

The first time Sam had tasted faith like that, must have been in the months after the shtriga attack.

When John dumped them with pastor Jim. 

Sam didn’t remember the shtriga attack, but he did remember the months of living with pastor Jim afterwards as an almost magical time. 

Old ladies with baked goods, a room with two beds that were _clean_ and _warm_ and _didn’t smell funny_ , _toys to play with_ and books, _piles of books meant for kids_. 

Sunday school with other kids who _just accepted them both_ , and _wanted to be their friends~_ because they were staying with _Pastor Jim_. 

_Music that made his soul soar_ , instead of the loud pounding stuff Dad and Dean preferred.

And then there had been _Dean_.

Dean who seemed to have been magically transformed from a grumpy, put upon big brother, who often seemed to barely tolerate Sam.

To somebody else that treated him like he was the most precious thing in the world. Prone to sudden hugs and gestures of affection, who suddenly _really_ wanted to spend time with him, to do and be everything for his overjoyed little brother.  
A Dean who’d suddenly become determined to be the best brother _ever,_ in the history of the universe. 

_Surely pastor Jim’s God had performed a miracle all for Sam._

He’s put the facts together in the years since, with the story Dean told him when they’d killed the shtriga in Wisconsin.

That miracle hadn’t been a miracle; the only god who’d been involved was Dean’s own personal, vengeful god, John Winchester. 

The one who, instead of taking responsibility for how Sam had so nearly become a victim of the thing John had dragged them across the country to hunt; had twisted and reinforced Dean’s childish guilt with silence. 

He had never explained or apologized or helped Dean deal and understand **_it hadn’t been his fault._**

Sam wondered now, whether John had meant for it to work out that way.

  
That incident must have become a self-inflicted choker chain of responsibility, and a reason for self-flagellation that stopped Dean fighting John’s authority.

Kept John Winchester’s own personal mini soldier and guard dog in line. 

_(‘Dad just ... grabbed us and booked. Dropped us off at Pastor Jim's about three hours away, but by the time he got back to Fort Douglas the shtriga had disappeared, it was just gone. It never surfaced until now. You know, Dad never spoke about it again, I didn't ask. But he...ah...he looked at me different, you know? Which was worse. Not that I blame him. He gave me an order and I didn't listen, I almost got you killed.’)_

Deans words were as clear in Sam’s memory, today, as on the day of his confession, 12 years ago. 

Those months, dumped off by Dad in Blue Earth Minnesota, had been a slice of heaven for Sam.

Dean, however, must have seen them as a form of punishment, for his failure, and proof Dad didn’t trust him. 

Two people’s views on events could be a world apart; Sam thought, looking at the Skype app and chewing absently on his bottom lip. 

What he viewed as trying to protect Michele from their world - not telling her things that could upset her, but go nowhere towards enlightening her; she seemed to have seen that as withholding information, both because he didn’t give a damn and because he was using her, as a tool or some kind of pet. 

And maybe he had been, he hadn’t done anything _real_ to help her, even though her life had been rocked by the sort of stuff that was supposed to be _his_ area of expertise. 

He had stopped seeing her as a civilian at some point, saw her instead as someone who _should help them._

He had fallen selfishly to expecting her to just deal with everything and suck it up, (even when it came to experience what she had by proxy, with the siren.) Had expected her to just be there to entertain him when he wanted her, and then forgot all about her, when it suited him.

He spent his life saving strangers, but what had he done for Michele? Her visions had saved their skin a good few times, now. Yet his efforts to help her hadn’t gone past cracking open a few books on prophets, and asking their Cas a few vague questions; and yes, then he hadn’t bothered to give _her_ any of those answers.

It was no wonder she lost her temper with him.

Sam clenched his jaw, acknowledging his attitude was pretty close to what he hated most about the way Dad had treated people. 

There was a reason John Winchester left a trail of burned bridges and trashed friendships behind him. 

He could even admit that perhaps the reason why Pastor Jim Murphy was the only one who _never,_ in all those years, turned his back on John and his sons, was probably the same one Michele had.

Faith and service of God. 

_Until that got him killed by a demon. Throat slit as a message to Winchesters,_ Sam reminded himself.

Once Sam had WANTED to believe in the kind of god Michele was so convinced existed; one who had a plan. Who cared? 

But the last time he’d allowed himself to believe in a god like that, a god who reached out and helped, one who gave a damn. It turned out, he’d been played and manipulated by Lucifer. 

So, when Michele held out her faith to him, in her hands; like a child with a precious spun glass Christmas ornament.

All he could think was how it looked pretty, but faith like that, it was sharp and drew blood when it shattered. 

The only good thing about Jim’s death had been that it happened _before they met any angels_.... and discovered what utter dicks most of them were.

Even more so, before they met Chuck as god. 

Chuck had been the worst kind of let down, not a loving all encompassing, all knowing god, but one who needed him and Dean to _save him._

A creator with a pile of excuses, but no answers. 

Everything Lucifer had done, and yet watching Chuck justify himself, how he had, in the face of Lucifer’s utter grievance, had done things to him inside, things which Sam couldn’t fully explain to himself. 

The last remaining wisps of Sam’s flagging faith seemed to have spluttered out and crumbled to ash.

He told himself he didn't miss it, he didn't think Chuck _deserved_ it.

But found himself struggling with the concept that, maybe, _he did miss it._

Would it make him feel better or worse if he managed to dent that bright shiny thing Michele carried?

Sam huffed another breath of self-derision.

  
He was digging at wounds unhealed, as a distraction.   
He needed to stop thinking about Chuck.

 **HE** needed to apologize to Michele.

He’d put it off too long, already. 

He could distract himself all he wanted saying Chuck didn’t deserve her faith.  
But he was also sure, _he didn’t deserve her friendship either._

He had _that much_ common ground with his creator.

…ooo0ooo…

A pretty teenage girl with mocha skin, narrowed dark brown eyes, and a lip glossed pout, answered Sam’s Skype call, totally throwing him off.

One of Michele’s daughters?

“Uh… Hello, is… your… Uh mother … there?” Sam found himself stammering uncertainly.

“Yeah, she’s in the kitchen, hang on.” The daughter answered disinterestedly, then the view lurched.

Sam realized the teen must have picked up his call with her mother’s cellphone and was taking it to her.

The sound of music got closer and Sam heard a snigger of amusement.

The view steadied with a bump.

Sam found himself looking at a kitchen and Michele, she was cooking… and singing … and sort of bopping round the kitchen to the music. 

“Mum you’re **_so_** weird.” the teen commented.

“But you love me, because…. I never do _this_ in front of your friends.” The mother replied laughingly and picked up a spatula and started singing into it like it was a microphone.

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yU6gG-p5FZc>

“ _When I heard that sound_  
_When the walls came down,_  
 _I was thinking about you_  
 _About you,_  
 _When my skin grows old._  
 _When my breath runs cold._  
 _I'll be thinking about you._  
 _About you”_

Michele sang theatrically into her spatula mic.

_“When I run out of air to breathe,_  
_it's your ghost I see._  
 _I'll be thinking about you, about you_

  
_It was almost love, it was almost…”_

_“_ You don’t do it in front of **_my_** friends, sure.” The girl’s voice broke in, with a snigger and the view wheeled again like the girl had waved the phone about.

“By the way…Phone.” Then there was a bump and the only view was the kitchen ceiling

Sam heard retreating footsteps and Michele stopped singing and started talking.

“Hello, my love, miracles really do happen if you’re on your way home already. Where ‘bouts are you? And what time should I put the jug on for coffee? I’m using the music thingee you set up, aren’t you _proud_ of me?  
I’ve really missed you; you know that? Next time they ask if they can have you for this long, I shall say ‘No! You are Mine, mine, mine! M _y husband_ and I want you _home_ _in bed with me every night_ , where you **belong**!” Michele babbled on happily, then picked up the phone, Sam got a brief view of Michele’s face before she squeaked in horror and dropped the phone again.

“Cabbages!” She splat, like she was swearing, then called louder. **_“Victoria?!! Why didn’t you tell me it wasn’t Dad!??”_**

Laughter came from the other room, and Michele picked up the cellphone from where she’d dropped it, with a tiny whimper, like she was in pain.

“And _that_ is why beating your children should _never_ have been outlawed. _Brat!”_ She muttered darkly.

More laughter replied.

“So…” Michele began uncomfortably, licked her lips and closed her eyes tight in a grimace of embarrassment. Then lifted her chin and plastered on a very fake, uncomfortable smile.

“Hell-o Sam… and how are y-ou… I guess you _realize_ you weren’t who I was expecting… _Please_ tell me Dean’s not sitting somewhere I can’t see him, laughing his head off at me…”

“Uh… no… Dean’s getting the dents out of the car…”

Michele’s face changed, became intent, he could feel her studying him, trying to work out if he was hurt.

He held up a quelling hand.

“No, it’s just the car Michele, Hellhound… long story.”

“He hit a Hellhound... with the _car_ …?”

“No, he was in the woods… with Crowley, I was driving… _well not driving_ … so… yeah, I’m _never_ gonna hear the end of it… A Hellhound jumped on the car, trying to get to Gwen… umm she’s a girl who _didn’t_ sell her soul… but she did… uh… hit it with an ax…?”

Michele’s eyes slewed sideways. “That’s… an interesting… plot line…” she said. Then there was the feeling of motion again, and the sound of a door shutting. Belatedly Sam remembered she wasn’t alone.

“Shit! Michele, I didn’t mean…”

“Nah it’s no biggie, little Miss Helpful knows I write Fan-Fiction about, ‘that weird book series filled with weird monsters,’ that I talk with a bunch of ‘weird people’ who also read and write about those ‘weird books.’ Because I, her Mum, am _like_ _totally_ _weird_ … As long as she gets internet and food on a regular basis, my weird hobbies and friends don’t feature.” Michele gave him a rueful shrug, the cat jumped up on the bed and onto her arms.

She looked slightly forlorn cuddling her pet, lifted her chin again.

“Hey Sam? … I’m umm sorry, about losing my temper the other day.”

Sam ducked his head in response, ran a hand through his hair nervously.  
Off balance in the face of _her_ unexpected apology.

“I Uh … that wasn’t your fault… _I’m, I’m sorry_ … For, for a lot of things Michele. You’re a good person… you don’t deserve _any_ of **_this_** … or being... stuck with us… really.  
I - I know I’ve taken your help for granted. I – I need you to know, I don’t think you’re dumb or a tool or m - my pet.”

“Sam…”

“We... ** _I_** … we appreciate everything, though we, I don’t deserve it… and …I’m sorry.”

“Sam, seriously. _Please stop!”_ She shot him a sheepish smile, “I’ve been writing… lots… I get it… okay? Can we please move on?”

“I told Dean about working with the Men of Letters.” He added hopefully.

“I’m glad about that, Sam.” She smiled like he’d given her a gift

“You were right, it wasn’t awful, he even said okay to working with them… and we’re good… So uh— will there be some unspeakable YouTube thing?”

“YouTube?” Michele looked utterly confused.

“Like Dean… after he…  
He said never to make you mad… because you had YouTube… and you weren’t afraid to use it…?” Michele still looked utterly confused. “He said he’d never speak of it...”

Then, she blinked, and started laughing.

“Sam, the the YouTube thing was called, ‘Thank you.’ It consisted of ummm …. Supernatural book quotes from people you’ve helped, saying “Thank you,” with a sketch of something that represented the person.  
It was, well **I** **_thought_** it was… _nice_ ….”


	63. Team Building Exercises

**The Thing You Hate**

  
**Chapter 63: Team Building Exercises**

Dean wiped his hands on a greasy rag and pulled his phone out of his pocket to survey the message he’d just received.

HobbitualPsychick, 2:35PM  
I saw this and thought of you

Followed by two photos.

The first photo was of a birthday card, with the words

“Don’t worry about another birthday, you aren’t old until you start leaving yourself little notes...”

The picture on the front was of a cartoon dog standing in a room plastered with yellow sticky notes.

The second photo was of the card’s inside which said

“... and then wonder who they’re from. Remember to have a great day.”

  
“Sonofa...”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, uncertain if his brothers pet hobbit was mocking him, trying to be funny, or had meant it as some sort of two month delayed birthday greeting.   
Just weird that she had thought about him while trolling the birthday card isle.

Still, he’s awesome and while Winchesters don’t do birthday cards or cartoon dogs... or random, “saw this and thought of you,” messages, he found a half smile tugging up one side of his mouth.

“Bet ya think you’re smart n funny,” he grumbled while typing the same words in a reply.

He turned his attention back to the impala’s liquid obsidian and bright chrome lines, feeling a deep satisfaction at having put things right.

New glass glinted pristine, the scratches and dents that had marred her body work were now corrected by dedicated exertion and skill.  
He might not be able to do everything right, but this, this he could do.  
His eyes lingered lovingly over the subtle flexion of the impala’s body, long smooth lines, curving over her wheelbase. Solid steel, chrome and glass. Not a sign of Hellhound damage, once again a thing of beauty.

His phone buzzed again with another message.

HobbitualPsychick, 2:37PM  
I have been called both before, Dean... admittedly it was a sort of 50/50 split of meanings between ‘intelligent and humorous’ and ‘your mouths going to get you into deep trouble soon, are you soft in the head?’

Dean hummed a small sound of amusement.

Sammy’s little friend was sort of amusing.

He’s labelled the woman many things, teased Sam about her often enough, but he guesses that’s what it boils down to.

Sam’s made a friend.

She accepts Dean, is warm and friendly towards him, in an all-inclusive, part of the furniture sort of way. (And Dean's grateful for that.)  
But there’s no denying who’s the main event in Mitch’s book, Dean’s just the add on. A weird reversal of how most people interact with the two of them. It’s an unfamiliar place for Dean to find himself in.

Sam always was a lonely kid, Dean reflects; that’s why he ended up attracting a fricking Zanna.  
Dean felt his lips curl further at a thought, Mitch is like a weird, instant messenger and email version of Sully, more electronic and less magical sure (except for the future vision thing) but she’s got the same vibe. He’ll have to remember to toss that one out there next time he’s got an opportunity, he doubts Sam will thank him much for the observation, but Sam’s bitchface will be epic.

As a kid Sam struggled making friends in ways Dean never did.  
Maybe it was because he was small, shy and sort of nerdy. He'd never been one to push himself forward and has a tendency to over think things.  
Moving every 5 minutes didn’t help either, always being the new kid. Living out of a car, endless no-tell motel rooms and run-down dives they didn’t help Sammy fit in, nor did Dad’s obsession with the hunt.  
Knowing what was out there in the dark made John Winchester, and Dean by extension, suspicious and paranoid of strangers - and everyone but family was a stranger.  
Their life growing up had been heavy on survivalist skills like PT and weapons training, focused on building the perfect soldier; and light on, ‘here’s some milk and cookies and when are you going to invite a nice friend home from school son?’

Maybe having Dean for a big brother didn’t make things easier for Sam.  
In his more introspective moments Dean can admit he’s too over-protective of his now grown, (over grown) brother.  
Maybe he’s always been a bit possessive.  
People have called their relationship co-dependent and countless other things with varying levels of venom and insinuation.  
Dean may lie professionally, but he can admit to himself that, sometimes he’s screwed up and over the top, everything about their life has complicated the whole making friends’ thing for someone like Sam, including Dean.

He just .... didn’t like those lame ass dweebs from when they were kids. Kids who only wanted Sam to help them get their grades up, or those transparent horse faced chicks who only came round to make cow eyes at Sam’s hotter, older brother.  
Sam was worth more than people like that, people who were just using him for something.  
Or worse, the ones like his silver spoon Stanford pals, that only saw and wanted a plastic, fake version of Sam.  
People who would look down their nose at Sam’s dumb, drifter, older brother. People who’d frown snobbishly and ask Sam if he’d been swapped at birth, probably tell him he shouldn’t associate with the white trash that raised him.

Because Sam was made of better material than he was, and Dean would just drag him down.  
Admittedly the Stanford douche bag, Brady, who threw that in Dean’s face -and got his College boy face punched in for it, triggering major fallout with Sammy and 2 years of silence- turned out to be a demon condom.  
So there was that.  
But demons didn’t always lie, not when the truth could cut.  
Here Sam was all these years later a college dropout, living the shady life of a hunter, with a trail of dead lovers and friends behind him.  
Dean shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably under the bright lights of the Men of Letters garage.

He wanted Sam to have more than that.

His phone vibrated again.

  
HobbitualPsychick, 2:40PM  
How’s your Baby? Is the dent removal going okay?... Sam looks so guilty every time he mentions it. I know you love that car more than anything... but you really love Sam more, right?... Pretty, pretty please could you ... sort of remind him of that, a little teensy tiny bit.  
I’m not asking you to say it or anything... just, you know ... do whatever replaces talking about the squishy stuff for you Winchesters...

Dean snorted.  
Possibly Sam had worked out a way to have more, (because Sammy’s smart.) Somehow in the midst of resurrected mother drama, shoving the Devil back in his box, West Guantanamo fallout, and Nephilim crisis, Sammy had found himself a friend.  
Dean could find his way to being quietly glad of it.

Of course, it didn’t mean he had admit that or forgo the simple pleasure of yanking her chain a bit.

 **2:43PM**  
**Could get him drunk and take him to a strip joint, I guess.**

He replied and grinned to himself, imagining her face at that.

It was the simple pleasures.

The sound of work boots on concrete, Sam’s long stride.

“Hey,” Sam greeted easily and handed him a beer. “Wow, you’re done…” Sam favored him with a lopsided smile.

“Your hobbit seems to think little Sammy feels guilty for banging up his big brother’s favorite toy.”

Sam flushed a bit and studied his shoes, cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “You two have been talking about me?” he asked uncertainly. Not denying anything, Dean noted.

“She’s bein’ a smartass.” He handed Sam his phone, with the photos of the birthday card.  
Sam grinned and huffed an aborted half laugh, swiping back his hair. “Your Little friend is warped, Sam.” Dean admonished.

“You just can’t tell when people are being nice Dean.” Sam suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Uh… so speaking of Hobbits Dean…. We got a message from Mick asking us to come in to HQ.”

“What? Why?”

“Dunno… But com’on Dean, the cars finished. Don’t you want to give it a run, make sure that everything’s perfect? … And… Maybe we can catch up with Mom?” Sam was all beseeching puppy eyes, (please Dean, you said you’d try.)

Dean took a mouthful of the beer Sam had brought, and eyed the conversation thread with Sam’s friend, (disappointingly she hadn’t replied to the strip joint comment.)

He snapped a photo of the impala and sent it off with the words.

**2:47PM**  
**Dents fixed, don’t think Sam can feel that guilty Mitch, instead of a strip joint he’s making me take him to report for duty at Limey HQ.**

 **2:48PM**  
**We have been summoned.**

  
HobbitualPsychick, 2:49PM  
Oh no Dean… they probably want you to fill in a pile of paperwork, collect your uniform and take part in a team building exercise.

HobbitualPsychick, 2:50PM  
Run away!!!!

 **2:52PM**  
**What?!**

HobbitualPsychick, 2:52PM  
Joking

HobbitualPsychick, 2:53PM  
No visions.  
But hey, please be careful…

  
Dean sighed and took another swig of beer, looked across at his brother still hovering there giving him puppy eyes.

“Fine… but if they want us to do any team building exercises I’m outta there.”

…ooo0ooo…

  
Sam wandered round his hotel suite, feeling off kilter, the room was too clean, too large and just too empty.  
Last he’d heard from Dean, was an overjoyed phone call some 20 minutes ago, after Dean discovered that the bathrooms contained a full-sized spa bath, with jets.  
He’d hung up in the middle of Dean expounding the virtues of some chick and her spa bath, who could… (that was the point where Sam had hung up.) Dean was gonna be happy with his spa bath for the rest of the night.

Sam set up his laptop, logged onto the free WiFi, and scrolled through his mail. After a moment’s hesitation, he sent Michele a Skype call, but she didn’t pick up.

Finally, he picked up one of the pile of Mick’s lore books he was borrowing, and immersed himself in werewolf lore.

.....

More than an hour later he was dragged to the surface by a returned Skype call.

“Sorry I missed your call, was bathing Chris, then the girls had a game.  
So, did Dean survive his play date without beating up any of the toppy nosed kids?” She asked grinning from her side of the screen, seated at her computer.

“Uh… I don’t…” Sam rubbed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose, having trouble changing gears, his mind swimming with all the information he’d been reading.

Michele tilted her head. “Let me rephrase that. How did things go with Dean and the Men of Letters?”

“They’re still going, actually.  
We have a werewolf case and Mick insisted on doing a ride along.”

“So, Dean killed him, and is out right now disposing of his body?” She teased.

“What? No! Dean’s in his suite and Micks in his… and I’m here, in mine.”

Michele rolled her eyes, “I didn’t actually think…” her voice cut off with a startled yelp, her whole body tensed and then her head snapped back against the chair back, as if she’d been hit with a jolt of electricity. Golden light filled her pupils, and radiated outwards into her green irises, before spluttering and dying.

“Shit! Michele can you hear me?” He called urgently, wondering if this was normal for one of her visions.  
The seconds seemed to stretch as he watched tributaries of blood make their way over her still lips and chin.

Watching her bleed, Sam swallowed; his mouth suddenly felt desert dry, so much blood… shockingly red.

Then she took a deep shuddering breath, and sat up.  
Found a handful of Kleenex like it was nothing, held it to her face, and began talking.

“It was a g-girl, maybe 18? blonde wavy hair past her shoulders, wearing blue jeans, black boots, a a green jacket… she was walking down a path towards a soccer field listening to music on her headphones, there was someone following her, a man? I d-don’t…  
He was wearing black and I couldn’t see a face just … like a mask? …. a skull… It had to be a mask, or are there things with skulls for faces…?”

He shrugged and shook his head in response.

Michele dropped her eyes, kneading her temples. “He-it was watching the girl, _wanted her_ , had made up his mind, wasn’t going to wait…  
She, she … stopped and took off her headphones, looked around, like she heard something… then he growled and lunged at her, _f-fast_ …  
That’s all…I didn’t see anything else.”

Michele looked up at him with a sigh. “None of that helps, does it? …  
It’s like the last blonde I saw…  
Just another missing person…” She faded out, looking sick and miserable.  
Her face was alarmingly pale, pupils blown wide like she’d been drugged. Eyes huge and frightened.  
Sam was pretty sure the tear that rolled down her cheek was tinged red, like it was stained with her blood.

“Yeah…” he sighed, equally at a loss.


	64. Connecting the Dots

** The Thing You Hate **

****

**Chapter 64: Connecting the Dots**

Sam ran his fingers restlessly down the front of his Fed overcoat as he gazed down at the dead girl on the hospital gurney.  
Yesterday Hayden Foster had been alive, and only moderately injured by the werewolf attack which had killed her brother.  
Today she was dead.  
Yesterday, the girl had been sleeping in a hospital bed, with her mother by her bedside, refusing to let ‘the FBI’ wake her for questioning.

Now, Hayden would never wake up again, leaving _another_ huge question, on the pile of unanswered questions of this case.

“Thanks for coming by so quickly. Ms. Foster gave us your number.” The stout balding doctor welcomed, steepling his fingers across his middle and looking unsettled.

“You have any idea what happened to her?” Dean prompted.

“Autopsy's tomorrow, but it could be an arterial embolism, cardiac arrest…”

“A heart attack at her age?” Sam challenged, disbelief beetling his brow.

“It gets weirder. When we admitted her, she had defensive wounds to her arms. Now...” The doctor pulled back the blanket covering Hayden from the neck down, exposing her blemish free arms “… they're gone.”

The silence stretched.

The doctors cellphone rang, disrupting the awkward silence.

“Just, uh, give me a second.” The doctor requested.

“Sure.” Sam was relieved when the doctor left the four of them alone.

“Okay... _what the hell?”_ Claire challenged looking to Sam, Dean and Mick Davies for explanation.

“You checked Hayden out. Did you notice anything weird?” Dean asked Mick with a hand wave.

“No, but, uh, the girl could've had internal injuries or...” Mick faltered, looking uncomfortable.

“But somehow, her external injuries all healed? _No way._ ” Sam disagreed. “This is almost like, uh...” he stared into space, and blinked as the most obvious explanation came to him.

“You know, what if she turned?”

“What, like, ‘wolfed out,’ turned?” Dean asked, giving his brother a look.

“Explains the whole Wolverine healing factor thing.” Claire agreed, looking between the brothers with a small nod of agreement.

“Yeah, no, but that'd be _crazy_ because that means she would've been _bit_.” Dean drawled “ _And Mick here says that that didn't happen.”_ Dean waved a hand at the British man of Letters and favored him with strong eye contact, and a raised brow. “ _Right, Mick?_ ”  
For a moment Mick looked at Dean, like a kid called on in class, who knows he doesn’t have a good enough answer.

“Uh... Uh, no, not – not that I saw.” he replied nervously.

“Are you 100%?”

“Unless… I made a mistake.” Mick back-pedaled.

“ _Hell of a mistake!_ ” Dean flared with a head shake.

“Dean...” Sam warned.

“No! _I told you we shouldn't have dragged him along. I told you!”_

“ _Don't!”_ Claire barked sharply at them. “Whatever got Hayden is still out there.”

“Okay...So let's say the night of the attack, wolf ices big bro, chomps down on a little sis, and then...poof, vanishes? Does that make any sense?” Dean directed, them all back to the facts.

“Maybe he let her go?” Sam suggested.

“On purpose? Why?” Claire asked looking between the brothers.

“Perhaps he didn't want her dead.  
He wanted her turned.” Mick proposed.

“Right! Which means this wasn't random.”

“Which means it would've been somebody who knew her. Friends, family...” Dean followed the chain of logic.

“Or someone from the bar,” Claire added.

“Okay. All right, Sam, you and Claire, you go talk to the girl that she was _supposed_ to be crashing with; and me and amateur hour will hit the bar, see what shakes loose.”

…ooo0ooo…

Sam watched Claire fish round in the disaster area of her cars back seat. Grab her backpack and drag it into the front.

“So... really? Things are good?” He asked.

“They’re _awe-some_.” Claire answered tonelessly.

“Really?” Sam held up a handful of the fast food wrappers that littered the interior of Claire’s car, letting them fall one by one. “You sure?” He asked, half teasing, half concerned.

“Dude, take the yes.” Claire suggested, pulling out a pair of mint-green headphones and slung them round her neck.

  
“Okay.” She let out a breath. “So, you wait here.”

“What!?” He demanded frowning at her.

“Sam, no offense, but who do you think the kids are gonna wanna talk to? Me, or some old skeezer?”

_“Y—_ ?!”

“Exactly!” Claire pretended the noise he’d made was agreement, rather than offence.

“Be right back.” She promised as she left him sitting in the car.

Sam sighed watching the girl walk away towards the high school. Claire was right, the kids _would_ be more comfortable talking to one of their own. Apparently he didn’t even speak teenager anymore.  
“Skeezer?” He asked thin air.

…ooo0ooo…

 **9:00AM  
** **Michele can I ask you something?**

Sam typed the query into the Skype box and ran a restless hand through his hair.  
It wasn’t a necessary question, he knew he was only starting up a conversation with Michele because he was feeling edgy.  
He’d usually fill a gap like this by calling or texting his brother and shooting the shit.  
But Dean was with Mick, touching base with his brother this soon after parting, might seem… A little clingy? Unprofessional? Like Sam couldn’t do the job without big brother holding his hand? It wasn’t the impression he wanted to give.

HobbitualPsychick, 9:01AM  
Of course hon. What’s up?

Gratifyingly, Michele’s response was almost immediate.

 **9:02AM  
** **What’s a ‘skeezer’? I thought maybe, since you have teenagers you might understand their language.**

HobbitualPsychick, 9:03AM  
Oh, because I’m in the unenviable position of being able to study two specimens of the species in their natural habitat you mean?

Sam could almost hear the amusement in her tone, even in writing.

 **9:04AM  
** **Yes, sort of….**

HobbitualPsychick, 9:04AM  
It’s not a word that my ‘Lesser antipodean spotted teens’ use… but, hmmm using my impressive word fu, gained from hours spent discussing colloquialisms and word origins with Cougar I’d say it’s a blend of ‘skeevy’ meaning creepy or gross, and ‘geezer’ meaning old man….If they aimed it at you, I’d say your stateside teen was calling you a creepy old man, dear.

Yeah he figured.

HobbitualPsychick, 9:05AM  
Oh, Sam… I just asked Mr Google the actual definition of ‘skeezer’…. and my guesstimate …. -coughs- … is MUCH nicer than what Mr Google gave me. Where did you dig up such a blessedly polite young person?

Sam huffed a breath of amusement, ‘blessedly polite,’ was not a description he’d use for Claire.

**9:06AM  
** **She’s a friend, Claire. She was investigating the werewolf case too, we stumbled onto her.**

HobbitualPsychick, 9:07AM  
Claire, as in Jimmy Novack's daughter? she’s chasing werewolves?!? Is Jody’s or someone with her?

Sam was surprised by that, until he reminded himself Michele had read Chuck’s books.

**9:08AM  
** **No, it’s just Claire. Jody’s busy with work, apparently Claire was supposed to call if she found anything, she ran into us first.**

HobbitualPsychick, 9:09AM  
Anything? like a possible werewolf? Umm Sam, I may be a helicopter Mum, and I don’t know Claire or Jody…. or hunting … But do you _really_ think Sherif Mills would happily allow a lone girl to go off to investigate a potential werewolf case… by herself?

The answer to that question seemed obvious, when Michele put it like that. 

**9:10AM  
** **Maybe I should call Jody.**

HobbitualPsychick, 9:11AM  
Yes, maybe.

.....

Sam was sitting on the hood of the car, staring at the School and considering the best way to deal with things, when Claire finally returned. He watched her walk towards him smiling.

“I was kidding before, but you really do look like a creeper.” She teased.

“Funny.” He congratulated “How'd it go?”

“BFF found. Beans spilled.” Claire enthused, then ran straight into a rapid fire explanation, heavy on the teen jargon “Hayden was hooking up with this older guy on the DL, and she was really into him, but he was a total stalker.  
Texting constantly, ultra possessive.  
Skeeved her friend out so much she narc'd to Hayden's brother.”

“Guess that explains why he was there.” He considered out loud.

Claire smiled at him as she made her way to the car, tossing her backpack in the back seat. “I did good. Right?”

Sam took a breath, stood “Claire….?” He began, she turned. “Why does Jody think you're in Madison looking at colleges?” He asked.

“ _You called her?_ ” She asked, alarmed.

He gave her an apologetic half smile and a small nod. There was a long pause as the girl looked away.

“Did you tell?” She asked finally, bouncing on her toes slightly, looking very young in her discomfort.

“No. Not yet. But why are you lying to her?”

Claire closed the car door shoving her hands in her pockets. “Look, _I-I know, okay_? I know how much I owe Jody. But we tried the whole hunting thing, and I just ended up sitting in the car while she does everything.”

“Guess she's taking it slow.”

“She wants me to be normal, go to nursing school _like Alex._ ” Claire pronounced contemptuously.

“Did she actually say that?” Sam remembered times, both when he was young and wanted desperately to hunt, and after a while, when he would have given anything to escape.  
Suddenly he felt old.

“She doesn't have to.”

Of course Claire was right… Jody didn’t want this life for Claire. Sam could admit to himself, _he_ didn’t want this life for Claire either.  
Youth and enthusiasm painted it as heroic, but the reality of Hunting was gritty and dark and usually ended far to soon. In blood.

“I'm better off on my own. This way, everybody's happy.” She continued.

It was so untrue.  
And it was weird, somehow he found himself using a modified version of Michele’s script about telling the truth.

“Claire, Jody's not gonna be happy, when she finds out. And if something happened to you...”

“I'm careful!” She argued.

“You need to tell her the truth.” He pushed.

Claire's face went hard, she stalked towards him “You know what? Screw you. I'm so sick of you guys, dive-bombing my life, pretending like you care.”

“We do care!”

“Then stop treating me like a stupid kid!” She all but yelled in his face.

“Then stop acting like one.” He flared.

Claire’s eyes widened and her mouth thinned before she turned on her heel and stalked off.  
Sam winced and wiped a hand over his face.

“ _Claire_ …” he called after her, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut.

She just kept walking, headphones blaring music to block out his voice.

...ooo0ooo...

…

RocksaltandSilver, 4:02PM  
Well it’s a good thing I don’t have kids.

Sam’s comment, via Skype, pulled Michele’s attention from the basket load of laundry she was folding.

**4:02PM  
** **What happened?**

She typed, leaving off on her hunt for the match to the lone sock in her hand.

RocksaltandSilver, 4:03PM  
You were right, Jody wasn’t aware of what Claire’s doing.

**4:04PM  
** **You didn’t dob her in to Jody, did you?**

RocksaltandSilver, 4:04PM  
No, but I confronted her about it, and told her she shouldn’t be lying to Jody, about hunting.

**4:05PM  
** **And she got stroppy, stormed off to her room and slammed the door? -Pats Sam’s shoulder comfortingly- Sounds like you did just fine hon’, Seriously, dealing with teenagers tends to be lots of being hated, for calling them on their less than stellar decision making.**

RocksaltandSilver, 4:06PM  
There’s no room to storm off too, nor door to slam, here, outside the high school, but she did a great job of storming off with those mint green headphones jammed over her ears, music blaring.

Michele felt her guts twist, mint green headphones? The details of her latest vision slammed forcefully back to forefront of her mind.  
The girl, Blonde hair, blue jeans, army green jacket, a hand rising to remove her mint-green headphones as she looked around, suspiciously.

 **4:06PM**  
**Claire’s blonde isn’t she? Those headphones, I may have seen them.  
** **She could be the girl from my vision.**

**4:06PM  
** **Find her Sam! Don’t let her go off alone, please!**

Michele typed rapid fire, urgent, hoping she was wrong.

There was no reply.

**4:07PM  
** **Sam?!**

She typed, still no answer.

Sam was gone.

All she could do now was hope. Hope that Sam had gotten her message. Hope that Claire Novak wasn’t the girl from her vision.  
Or, if she was, that Sam found her before something dressed in black did.  
The girl in her vision, she had looked only a handful of years older than her girls.  
Michele tugged frustrated fingers through her hair and stared at the basket of clean clothes waiting to be folded; eyes unseeing, her thoughts half a world away.

This was the worst bit… the not knowing. Waiting and wondering. When the only thing left was hope and prayer.

“God, I can’t believe I saw that girl for no reason… Sam, he says that you left, that you don’t care _or_ have a plan. _But I know you_ … so I’m asking.”

She faltered in her prayer, uncertain exactly what ask. Wrapping her fingers round the silver cross hanging around her neck and took a breath. 

“ _Please_ God …. Don’t let that girl, who ever she is die…. _please?”_

…ooo0ooo…

As Sam sprinted in the direction Claire had stormed off in, he couldn’t believe _how_ _stupid_ he’d been.  
Michele was right, she’d described Claire to him two days ago, down to what she was wearing today.  
Over his pounding heart he heard a scream, ran faster.

_Fuck!_

There it was, the playing field, and _Claire_ … lying on the ground.

At his approach she scrabbled for her knife, not recognizing him, thinking to defend herself from an attack.

“Claire. Claire.” He called “ _Hey. Hey. Claire._ Hey, it's me. _It's me._ ”

Recognizing his voice, the fight went out of her with a whimper.

He crouched down, and wrapped his arms around her, sat her up and pulled her close in one motion. Searched for signs of threat over her shoulder.  
Saw nothing.

“It's me. I gotcha. I gotcha. I gotcha. You're safe.” He soothed, stroking her hair, while she clung to him whimpering.

Then, he looked down, and saw the blood on her shoulder, the tear in her jacket.  
The bite mark in her flesh.  
Cold fingers of dread wrapped his heart and hot fingers of rage clawed his thoughts.  
Closing his eyes, he felt sick, sucked in a breath, fought to keep it together.

_For Claire._

It was about all he could do, _too little, to late._

If only he’d listened and _understood_ … If only he hadn’t pushed so hard… or not let her storm off… if only, _if only…_


	65. Anxious

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 65: Anxious**

Directionless anger seething through Dean’s blood, reminiscent of how he’d felt with the mark jacking him up.

The confrontation with Mick _(bein’ accused of paling round with witches and demons, that shit stung! The man is nothing by a glorified paper pusher doesn’t understand! Doesn’t get how it is in the REAL world.)_

Knowing and telling Sam how Hayden had really died; Sam telling him about Claire getting bitten, about not connecting the dots in time.

It all left him hungering for violence.

Dean finished cleaning out and covering the bite wound on Claire’s shoulder, tossed a glare in the direction of the British sonofabitch, Claire was trembling underneath his ministrations and waves of heat rolled off her.

Dean wasn’t going to get played again, Mick had drunk the company cool-aid, the Limey policy of ‘the only good werewolf is a dead werewolf,’ would get revisited only over a dead body.

Mick Davies dead body. 

If he thought, he was gonna get near Claire with a syringe of fricking silver nitrate, the creep could think again! 

“We gotta cool her off. She's burning up.” He muttered sliding his fingers from her pulse, and gripped Claire’s too warm hand, squeezed lightly in an attempt on comfort.

“No. No, no, keep her warm.” Mick picked up a blanket, stepping forward.

Sammy turned angrily towards Mick. “Back off.” He snarled

“Shut up.” He agreed, gesturing angrily at Mick.

“Look, I understand you're angry…”

“Mick, you killed a kid. We're not angry. We're _done_!” Sam flared, cutting the air with a furious hand.

The brothers turned their backs on Mick, faced back to Claire, shoulder to shoulder, blocking Mick out.

“How long have I got until...” Claire hunched in on herself as she asked, arms crossed over her chest.

“Sometimes it takes a full moon. Sometimes it just takes time.” Sam answered her as gently as he could, worked his jaw against the frustration of the situation.

Dean could tell his brother was scrabbling for something to do, a way to fix this, make it okay. Sam would be carrying a load of guilt for not telling his hobbit about Claire sooner, and not joining the dots in time.

Claire sniffled, and her face crumpled.

Dean slid to his knees in front of her, rested a hand on her knee

“Hey. Hey, listen to me. Look, nobody said this was gonna be easy, okay? _But you can live with this.”_

“No way.”

Sam paced back to the table, sat and opened a book.

“Hey. Look, so you – you have to stay locked up a few nights out of the month, okay? The rest of the time, you're _you_.” He looked up into Claire’s blue eyes from where he knelt, trying to convince her.

_“Unless I break out.”_ Dean felt himself flinch back from what he saw in the girl’s eyes, she was too young to look like that “Maybe some people can control this, but I can barely keep it together on a good day.” Claire admitted in a broken whisper “So if there's _any_ chance I could hurt Jody or Alex...or anyone... **_I'd rather die.”_** Her words were fierce, strong.  
Dean looked down under the force them. God, she was too young to look like that, mean that, she’d barely lived, as far as he knew she hadn’t even —…

Dean felt sorta unclean just thinking about _that stuff_ in relation to Claire… the point was - she’s barely lived.

“Claire, there may be another way. There's – there's the blood therapy, that you talk about.” Sam broke in, waved at Mick then down at the book, open in front of him.

“I told you, _it doesn't work_.”

“It says right here, uh… ‘1 out of 9 test subjects was _cured_.’” Sam read out, finger pointing at the page for emphasis.

“ ** _Cured?”_**

“Yes!”

“That study was on _mice_.”

Dean got to his feet, stalked towards Mick. “You want to tell me what the hell he's talking about?” He demanded.

“We experimented with the blood of sire werewolves. And we found it was possible to reverse the early stages of lycanthropy... _in rodents.”_

“So, you never tested on humans?” Sam queried.

“Once.”

“ _And_?”

“The subject died, _in agony_.” Mick grimaced and shot a look at Claire.

Dean felt his hopes crash, saw the same on Sam’s face.

“Sorry.” Mick breathed.

“Yeah. Maybe second time's a charm.” Claire argued, unperturbed.

Dean rounded on Claire “Hey, no, no. You don't get a vote in this.”

“It's my life. _I get all the votes_.”

Dean turned to his brother “Sam, you wanna back me up here!?”

Sam refused to look at him. “It's her life,” he muttered.

In that moment, he knew Sam was thinking about the hell trials and Gadreel.

“I bet you think this is a great solution. Huh? It works, or she dies. Either way, one less monster, _right_?!” Dean rounded on the British man.

“I don't think there's any great solutions here.” Mick answered, there was a vulnerability in his eyes that gave the hunter pause.

“Dean... Please?” Claire begged, “I can't…”

Dean found himself pacing, faltering _(All those words Sam had thrown in his face, because he couldn’t let him go, let him make his own choices._

 _He could never agree what he did was wrong - but it didn’t mean Sam wasn’t right too)_ ….

“All right. If we do this – **_if_**... how do we get it done?”

“We need blood, live blood, from the werewolf that bit her.” The British man answered.

“Good. Great. Who we lookin' at?” Sam asked, leaning forward.

“Tribal tat. Back at the bar. We shook him down about Claire, and right after, she gets bit. That’s not a coincidence.”

“Timeline fits, connection to both victims.”

“Then we should go. The full moon rises in less than an hour. And if she turns and feeds, _our cheery success rate drops to zero._ ” Mick urged.

“Let's go!”

The Winchester brothers headed for the door, Mick followed. Dean stopped and turned toward Mick.

“Not you.

You stay with her.”

“You _trust_ him?” Sam demanded.

“Mick's a smart guy.

So, when I say that if anything happens to her, _and I mean anything..._ ” He gritted out through clenched teeth.

“You'll kill me,” the British man finished.

“Like I said. Smart!” Dean nodded to himself.

**…ooo0ooo…**

They were working on the perennially hated spelling homework.

“The last one is ‘Anxious’, do you need me to use it in the sentence?”

“Anxious: I know Mum is **anxious** because she keeps checking her phone while we are doing spelling,” the boy demonstrated his word knowledge without looking up, the sentence hovered partway between a statement and a question.

Michele bit her lip, glancing down at her phone, and put it on the table guiltily. 

Yes, Mum was anxious, autistic kids weren’t supposed to understand or read other’s emotions very well… but the 8-year-old could read her better than anyone else on earth.

It had been two hours, since the conversation with Sam stopped so abruptly, and her mind kept going places.

Werewolves, blonde girls, men/things in black.

The Supernatural books were real

_Was that ever going to stop sucker punching her?_

Red Meat.

That book detailed a werewolf case the Winchester brothers had investigated.

And if _that_ was an example of a werewolf case… there was reason to be anxious, right?!

Sam, _her Sam_ , had been shot, suffocated, had almost died.

Dean _thought_ he **had** died, then _he’d_ overdosed in an attempt to bargain for his brothers return.

One day Winchester luck would run out, today might be that day.

_(‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.’)_

Wasn’t that a big dollop of irony? That she found herself praying a prayer associated with Alcoholics Anonymous over Winchesters?

Michele looked down with a small jolt, a note pad full of spelling words was shoved into her hands.

_(‘Right, spelling words to mark.’)_

Michele started checking, down the spelling list.

“Please don’t let me have to write any out, please don’t let me have to write any out, please…” Her son chanted making her smile, a prayer to the vengeful god of spelling homework. (In the insane world she now inhabited, _maybe that was an actual thing_.)

Pointing at the third word from the bottom which was supposed to be ‘Fierce.’

“Your writings awful, what are the last two letters supposed to be?”

“What are the last two letters supposed to be?” The boy echoed. The experts would call it an example of echolalia. But the green eyes, that met hers, then deflected away, held the sparkle of a kid hedging his bets.

_(‘The god of spelling homework **also** helps those who help themselves, apparently.’)_

“They’re _supposed_ to be a ‘C’ and an ‘E’…” she informed her son with a rueful smile, “and if they don’t _obviously_ look like that tomorrow you can write it out, twice.  
Right, you’re done! Be free, be free.”

With a yodel of joy, the boy scampered off to find his iPad.

From the table, her phone chimed.

…ooo0ooo…

It hadn’t gone down how they’d expected.

Tribal-tat wasn’t the wolf, turned out it was the other bartender.

While they were off pursuing Tribal-tat, wolf-boy decided to collect his playmate, knocked Mick out and took off with Claire. If it hadn’t been for Mick Davies putting a tracking device in Claire’s pocket …

Thanks to Mick they’d found her, killed the wolf and administered the ‘cure.’

Now, Dean found himself sitting on a kitchen chair, watching the girl he considered to be like family, (a step niece, twice removed or something,) convulse and make inhuman noises of pain.

_(_ _“The subject died, in agony.”)_ Mick’s words echo hollowly in his memory.

A treatment tested on one human? _And_ the guy died!

But he’d let a freaking _kid, who wasn’t even old enough to drink,_ talk him into giving her it.

A lethal injection dressed up as a possible cure.

God, what had he done!?

_(_ _“The subject died, in agony.”)_

One in nine chances for freaking mice, but hey! Let’s roll the dice.

They should have locked her up, or shipped her off to Garth, found another way.

_(_ _“The subject died, in agony.”)_

How is he ever going to look Jody in the eyes again?

Son dead, husband dead, then they’d dumped two screwed up kids in her lap like a faulty consolation prize. Jody had taken them in. Loves them. Now he’s sitting here watching one of them, **dying in agony.**

This is worse than Claire dying on their watch.

Worse than putting a bullet in her fricking head.

She’s _suffering_ , dying slow and he’s just sitting here, _watching it fucking happen._

_No one_ deserves this, he wouldn’t let a _dog_ die like this.

Inside he’s screaming, outside he wears his habitual game face, but can feel it cracking.

Live or die, if only he knew.

If he knew this ‘cure’ was definitely not going to save her, could he man up and take responsibility? Give her peace with a bullet, rather than this lingering agony for god knew how long.

Even if it killed him inside, he could do that for Claire.

 _This_ is killing him, sitting here watching.

He’s a killer… If he knew for certain there was no hope…

_If only he knew…_ then it hit him, he knows someone who sees the future.

“Gonna get some air.” He tells Sam.

…ooo0ooo…

“Mitch.” Dean’s voice is hoarse and has an edge to it, filling her chest with constricted panic.

“Dean, is…”

“ _Sam’s_ fine.” Dean cut her off.

_(‘Am I really that predictable?’)_

_“_ It’s Claire, she got bit. There’s a cure but it’s a long shot.”

Michele heard herself make a small sound of distress. “Shoot Dean, I’m so sorry, I wish…” she stopped herself. “What do you need?” Dean Winchester isn’t the kind of guy who comes to cry on your shoulder. He’ll threaten to shoot you if he thinks you’re a danger to _his_ people, and attempt phone sex for an emotional dodge, sure… But crying on your shoulder? … No.

“Need t’ know if you’ve seen anything, need t’ know if the cures fixin’ her or just killing her slow…” his voice cracked over the last word, Michele heard him draw a ragged breath.

Swallowed back, sympathetic tears that burned her eyes. “I’m sorry honey, the only vision I had was that first night. I wish I could tell you otherwise.”

“Yeah… guess I knew that.” He sounded flat, like he thought he didn’t deserve or expect more.

“Dean”

“What?”

“Just… please… This isn’t all on you okay? If there’s life, there’s hope, right? You have to hold on to that.”

He makes a noncommittal sound, it’s such an alone disbelieving sound, it makes her ache to hug him, stroke his hair and tell him he’s not to carry so much. He wouldn’t accept something like though, not Dean Winchester. And not from her.

Someone calls his name, it sounds like he’s stuffed the phone in his pocket without hanging up.

A door opening and closing.

Footsteps.

The silence lags, and Michele wonders what’s happening. The silence is thick and heavy.

_(‘Please God!’)_

Then a girl speaks “You guys look like crap.”

_(Claire?)_

A few gasping breaths close by, amazement and relief? Then strained laughter.

“Claire.” The Winchester brother’s voices chorus, (which answers her question,) the name sounds like a benediction.

“Told you, second time was the charm. You can’t get rid of me that easy.” The girl’s voice chides, snark and teenaged attitude in bucket loads.

“Course not.” Dean’s gruff voice agrees, all cool self-assurance, like he never had any doubt.

Michele smiles to herself, taking a breath of relief and hangs up the Skype call.

Looks down at the notepad and the last word.

Anxious.

The girl is going to be okay; the bad guy has been dealt with, and the Winchester boys are in one piece.

_(‘Mum is no longer anxious.’)_

_Thank you, God!_

She thinks fiercely.


	66. Onboard Entertainment

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 66: On-board Entertainment**

Once they’d disposed of the werewolf, checked Claire over to make sure she was actually 100% cured, and sent her on her way (hopefully, she’d come clean with Jody, but they’d got no assurances on that front.) They headed out and dropped Mick back to the Men of Letters shipping container HQ with a feeling of relief.  
Mick might have access to some amazing, up-to-date lore books, his knowledge had turned a disaster into a win, and they would given him a second chance because of it.  
But he was an unknown, and neither brother could relax around or trust him.

No sooner had the Men of Letters compound’s security fences left the rear-view mirror, when Dean decided that they had a few more hours driving and nothing better to do, so they may as well call Michele and fill her in on Claire’s recovery.

The way he said it made Sam duck his head to cover his amusement.  
Dean’s tone said he was only suggesting it to avoid listening to yet another podcast; but the way the corners of Dean’s eyes crinkled up when he’d had agreed, that had seemed awfully eager.  
Maybe not ‘do you want some pie Dean?’ eager, or the parts trader in Wisconsin found original mint parts for the impala, eager.  
Not even, first cup of morning coffee after a long night, eager.  
But maybe, second cup of coffee of the day, keen.  
A far cry from the irritated, lesser of two evils, indifference he was trying to portray.

…ooo0ooo…

“So, Mitch, how are you Hobbits gonna celebrate the first ever Purge.”

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother, somehow it had surfaced in Dean’s head that they were only days away from March 21st 2017, the date of the first ever Purge in the James Monaco flick.  
It was his fourth mention of it today.  
The way Dean’s mind locked on to these insignificant details never ceased to amuse and annoy Sam.  
It was an equal measure thing.  
Dean’s encyclopedic knowledge of weird horror movies was just one of those things.

“Ignore him, Dean’s still struggling to separate fantasy and real life. Dean sorta is a horror movie.” Sam huffed.

Michele didn’t answer, ‘The Purge’ didn’t really strike him as Michele’s kind of thing.  
But then, what did he know? It occurred to him, he’s never really asked her anything about stuff like that.

“Hey, coulda been reality! Lucifer jacked the president, we were damn lucky he didn’t have a hard on for dystopian horror movies.” Dean argued. “People slaughtering each other in the street, pretty much his kinda thing.”

What Lucifer could have done wearing the President was something Sam really didn’t want to ponder.  
Lucifer was something he didn’t want to ponder.  
So Sam fell back on the soothing holdfast of dispensing knowledge.

“They chose March 21st because it’s the vernal equinox, day and night of equal length. It was supposed to symbolize the balance of good and evil inside everyone…  
There’s actually a bunch of lore surrounding the equinoxes, the balance. Light and dark, good and evil, death and resurrection… The numerology surrounding the number 21, some of it is even Biblical Michele, it’s pretty interesting actually, it has allusion to both good and evil. Is associated with sin and rebellion, but is also considered a representation of God and the Temple.”

Dean cuffed his shoulder.  
Michele had been quiet for a while, and Sam got his brother’s point, the woman probably didn’t give a damn about equinoxes, or number theories linked to a date from a horror movie she’d probably never watched.

“To answer your question Dean,” Michele responded slowly as the silence stretched, “I’m going to celebrate Purge day, by,” she hesitated. “Uh… turning 40. Figures someone would make a horror movie using the date.”

Huh? That made her older than Dean, Sam realized.  
It was hard to think of her as older than Dean, or even him, sometimes he fell into the trap of thinking of Dean like he’d always existed, before time itself, and Michele… she was so… naive and shiny.  
She might be a Mom of four, but parenting… Sam had been up close and personal with an example of how someone could parent and still be a kid.

“Forgot chicks have a spastic meltdown over every birthday ending with a zero, after 20.” Dean contributed helpfully.

“No, not me, honestly. My English sister-in-law had a minor breakdown over hers, but…” she snorted softly, “I’m not much of a girly girl. Beside tendency to leak blood, migraines and visions aside. I’ve got everything I could want.  
A pesty, in a good way, husband.  
Kids who actually like me. And since two of them are teenaged daughters, that’s a minor miracle right there!  
My life is pretty small, but it matters, you know.  
I’m needed and loved.... so, I’ve got no reason for a midlife crisis.  
Granted I might die tomorrow, who knows, but if I do…I can trust, it will be enough.”

Sam felt a tug of envy at her words, how many times had they saved the world? And still he didn’t have anything approaching that easy comfort inside his own life, or tranquility over his time on earth, that _something_ , she had just relayed.

Maybe it was her belief in the bigger plan which gave her that?  
Maybe it was because she’d never started an apocalypse…

Why did she sound so off about her birthday then?

“….Its just… when someone you care about dies on your birthday… it sort of stains things, you know.  
One of my really close friends, Nic, she died on my birthday, a while back after a pretty grim battle with cancer. Her daughter was only 6… so yeah...”

Sam cut his gaze sideways to his brother.

“Yeah, I get that.”

Dean cleared his throat, he didn’t like the turn the conversation had taken.

“ _No way_ you’re older than me Mitch, only explanation is that Hobbits gotta age like dogs or some shit.”

“You do realize I’m not actually a hobbit, Dean? Just because Carver Edlund invented you, Tolkien didn’t actually invent me, sheesh!”

“He So didn’t invent me, smart ass.”

“Well yeah, if Carver Edlund is Chuck Shirley, and Chuck Shirley is God, He so did!”

“She got you there, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes widened, and his lips shaped a soundless curse.  
Sam couldn’t help laughing. Dean gave him another shove.

“I hate those fricking books.” He snarled, venom and vinegar, but there was a crinkle beside Dean’s eyes and the set of his shoulders was way too relaxed for actual vehemence, Michele didn’t know that however.

“I …I’m sorry Dean.” She stammered in a little girl voice, sounding guilty as hell.

“Sorry for what?” Dean was totally clueless, but Sam knew where she was going.

“Michele, let it go.” He warned, and it came out edged with threat. He didn’t want to do this now —or ever.  
It’s not like her telling Dean, about publishing what she is, on that crappy Fan-fiction website, would change anything for the better.  
If Dean hasn’t filled in the blanks on his own, she doesn’t need to spell it out for him.  
He’s tempted to end the call, and pretend they lost coverage, have a strongly worded conversation with her about it, later, in private.

Suddenly there was a sound reminiscent of the shrieking of the unquiet dead.

Sam has experienced that sound before, it means the WiFi for Michele’s kids has run out, and her autistic 8-year-old isn’t amused.

Michele was going to disappear on them soon, off to her life, in her world.  
He’s gotta remember he’s only a nasty blip on her radar, an aside from that life, and the people she really cares about.  
Sam and his brother, they represent something nasty, stuff she probably wishes she didn’t know about.  
He’s used to it, most people, people with normal, apple pie lives, they tend to wish they‘d never met him and Dean.

Dean was frowning.  
Sam wouldn’t want to bet on whether it’s because of the kid’s yelling bloody murder, the tone Sam took, or because he wants to know why Michele is sorry.

They’re talking with no picture, and she’s probably got a hand over the phone’s microphone, but Sam can tell she’s going towards the source of the noise.

“You know the WiFi is part of a world, the intricacies if which, have never quite been within my grasp, darling.” Michele advised the unseen (but not unheard) child reasonably.  
Far too reasonably in Sam’s opinion, he’d have gotten a kick in the ass from either Dad or Dean if he’d carried on like that.  
“The limit was set and has now been exceeded. World without end, Amen!” She spoke calmly. “It is bedtime. Pajamas on, iPad on charge, clothes by the wash. I will start reading in 5 minutes. New book tonight! Secret breakers: the power of three, it’s supposed to be like the Da Vinci code for kids.” Michele informed her spawn, as if he wasn’t yelling like a banshee.  
The wailing ceased as if she’d turned off a tap.

“Sorry, the joys of autism parenting.” Her voice was rueful.  
Dean’s eyebrows rose, and Sam bet his brother was now thinking about Rainman or something.

“Thought you said the kid was smart, can’t he read his own book?” Dean grumbled.

“Of course, he can,” Michele sounded offended, “that’s not the point.”

“What’s the point, then?”

(‘Fuck and here it comes’) the two of them are better, but put them together for too long and eventually fur started flying, (he’s beginning to suspect his brother enjoys it.)

“For me, reading to someone is a way of showing I care.” Michele said softly.  
“It makes Johnny feel safe and loved, clears his mind and helps him sleep.”

It was not the response or tone Sam expected her to answer Dean with.  
When he glanced across, Sam was surprised to see his brother’s color was high, and there was a quirk to his brother’s lips that said he was sort of pleased or embarrassed.

Weird.

“Come with me.”

(‘Come where? She’s on the other side of the world.’)

“Tell you what, I’m not going to hang up, you can listen or not, it’s up to you.”

She means come listen to her kid’s bedtime story? Sam looks at Dean again, this will be Deans cue to say, “Hell no sweetheart, we’re not a frickin’ kids.”

Dean was silent.

Sam watched his brother’s too plush lips part, then compress.  
The tense way Dean swallowed.  
A rough hand way he scrubbed his knuckles across his lips, knuckles split and scarred from years of fighting. Dean’s other hand whitened on the steering wheel, but he still didn’t say a word.

Dean kept his eyes resolutely on the road ahead and didn’t say a word.

Did Dean expect him to hang up?

(Meanwhile, Michele and her son were going through their nightly routine, the boy called the cat and feed it something called ‘Slinky treats.’ There was a drink and some sort of pills. Teeth got brushed, despite the kid’s argument that there was fluoride in tap water and there isn’t anything stuck in his teeth.)

A rough voice in the back of Sam’s head was saying that ‘men don’t listen to bedtime stories; you’re a man, Sammy, act like one.’  
He wonders if Dean heard that voice too, if it sounded like John Winchester, to Dean as well.

But the voice that Sam had always cared most about was silent.

There was a small greedy thing inside of Sam right then, that wanted this.  
Even if it wasn’t for him; and he knows it belongs to an autistic kid, on the other side of the world.  
But it’s not the first time he and Dean have dined off of someone else’s scraps.

…ooo0ooo…

  
  
Michele read for a long time. The story was about three kids, related to a group of code breakers who had worked at a place called Bletchley Park Mansion during World War II.  
They’re being drawn into a scheme to translate a banned document, the Voynich manuscript, also known as ms 408.  
The manuscript is written in an unknown language, was found in a castle, in Italy, in 1912, and the best code breakers in the business have tried and failed to decipher it since then … the kids were supposed to be fresh eyes, a new way of thinking.

…..

They reached the bunker before Michele finished reading.  
Dean parked, and they sat outside the bunker’s wide, reinforced metal and concrete doors in silence, staring through the impala’s windscreen side by side, listening to Michele read while the small sounds of the impala’s engine beginning to cool surround them ….

Until..

“That’s it for tonight….”

The kid grizzled, begged and pleaded. “Please, please, please, please, please!”

“No!” Michele told him sternly. “No more chapters tonight, it’s 8 o’clock and 8 o'clock is bedtime! No discussions will be entered into. World without end, Amen!  
Lie flat and prepared to be rolled.” Michele ordered.

Sam wasn’t sure what that meant exactly, but there was a lot of giggling involved.

Then, demands for hugs and kisses.

A yelp, and an admonishment that, “kisses and licks are two different things, I’m not a lollipop, you brat.’

At that Dean turned, raised his eye brows and looked at Sam for the first time, leered.  
Sam expected his brother to say something crude, but he just slid out, and unlocked the entrance to the Bunkers garage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it’s been more than 15 chapters (or two weeks) since anyone has commented. I’m kinda wondering whether I lost everyone, and if it’s worth editing and doing artwork or keeping to the posting schedule I’ve set for myself. 
> 
> Anyway thanks for reading if you have been and please comment. 
> 
> A lot of stories end up incomplete on these fanfiction platforms, not because the story isn’t finished, but because the author gave up on sharing it.


	67. Blood, Milk and Whiskey

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 67: Blood, Milk and Whiskey**

Michele woke with a splitting head and blood on her face. It was not even midnight yet, and her whole body ached for the sleep the vision had dragged her from.

Loosening her two-year-old hands from her hair she slipped out of bed, head tilted back, hand cupped under her chin to catch gore splatter.  
Momentarily, she looked back at her husband and her youngest son, their heads are resting together on the same pillow, faces both innocent and soft with sleep.  
The cat rose from her place at the foot of the bed, stretched languidly and followed her from the bedroom into the lounge.

She held a handful of tissue to her face soaking up the blood, as she stood motionless in the dark breathing through the pain, waiting for the flow to stop, and considered the latest vision.

It wasn’t much … Sam and Dean talking to Eileen the deaf hunter on FaceTime, about tracking Kelly Kline to a warehouse.

It _was_ good news.

But wasting a vision (and her blood) on that interaction seemed … excessive.

She wiped at the blood absentmindedly trying to puzzle it out.

Two things came to mind, the first is that Eileen is a _female hunter_ , she’s not a psycho or something supernatural and she’s survived in the hunting world all her life, which means she’s got to be smart, good and _careful_.

Ever since the werewolf thing with Claire, the mother in Michele has been chewing over ‘the Claire situation.’  
The girl nearly got herself killed and the stupid Sam and Dean just let her go strutting off alone, AGAIN, to find _something else evil and chompy that wanted to kill her._

Michele does not approve of survival of the fittest or natural selection when it comes to teenagers, and she doesn’t understand why Sam and Dean don’t take the girl under their wing and _teach her,_ train her and keep her from the excesses of youth.  
Okay, she gets that they don’t want to be responsible for getting any more friends killed. And that they think Winchesters attract exponential danger, and being round them gets people killed.  
Michele isn’t sure she totally disagrees.   
But doing _nothing_ , leaving Claire out there alone, to figure it out by herself, seems daft and irresponsible.

There has _got_ to be a better way.

There are a lot of things Winchesters think are the only way, but Michele finds herself disagreeing over. So part of her has been searching for an alternative she can suggest.

Standing in her darkened lounge room with blood in her fist and a cat wrapping itself round her ankles Michele is hopeful she’s got an alternative to suggest.

If Claire is truly set on becoming a hunter, the Winchesters _could_ broker a hunter apprenticeship type situation for her, with someone that’s smart and trustworthy.

Eileen would be a good fit, she’s female which means Claire won’t get taken advantage of, she must know how to fight, and how to take into account the limitations and dangers of being a woman, so Eileen must know how to pick her battles, and how to survive without being an intimidating 6 foot tall man...

Skills which neither Winchester are capable of teaching, since they are both 6-foot tall men, lack the good sense God gave geese, and seem to have more lives than a cat.

Michele shook her head, immediately regretted the motion, and considered the other thing the vision spot lighted.

A maternal smile teased her lips unconsciously.

Eileen _likes_ Sam.

And _maybe_ he could like her too.

Eileen’s a hunter, a survivor. Like Sam, she’s a legacy, one who lost her parents, and was raised a hunter.  
She has a chance of understanding the package that is Sam, of being a part of his world.  
It would be _so_ nice if her sweet, smart, self-sacrificing friend, Sam Winchester realized Eileen liked him, it would be _even nicer_ if he let himself like her back. 

Michele believes in happily ever afters.

…ooo0ooo…

“An apprenticeship?” Dean asked somewhat incredulously staring at the woman on the laptop screen. She wasn’t the type of woman he had been aiming to be looking at, when he’d swiped Sam’s laptop, but here he was.

“Yes, why not? Come on Dean.

I’ve been in your head, I know you care about Claire, …. you feel responsible for her, so _be_ _responsible_. If she insists on hunting, find someone you trust to train her…Jody isn’t a hunter she’s a sheriff with a bit of extra knowledge, Claire needs more, it doesn’t have to be Eileen, but…”

Dean held up a hand, “Hold up, you’ve been in my head? Explain!”

The New Zealander gave him a put-upon sigh.

“Winchester gospels, Dean.”

She sounded exhausted, “I don’t get a choice. I see some stuff through your eyes, Sam’s too … My viewing point it .... uh varies,” she swallowed and looked away.

“Dean, my heads killing me, it’s the middle of the night and I feel like crap, can we just… not?” She gave him a beseeching look.

The hunter couldn’t help notice how bloodless and worn down she looked, perched there on the sofa in her pajamas, with her hair a mess and smears of blood on her face and cuddling her pussy cat like a cuddly toy.

“Yeah, okay.” He reeled back his irritation a notch.

“Mitch, that vision, how’d you get from there to, The Apprentice: Hunter edition, why do ya think _Eileen_ would agree to take Claire.”

“Eileen likes Sam, like _likes_ likes him.” She shot him an impish grin.

“She’ll do it if Sam asks. Eileen’s deaf so Claire _would_ be an asset, fielding phone calls is only one example. Can’t you see both of them would benefit … it wouldn’t be a one-way street… Claire’s a teenager so she’s going to find it hard to listen to Jody but Eileen is a stranger so she’s more likely to tow the line. And Eileen’s _still alive_ even with being deaf, so she doesn’t take foolish risks right?

How else does a monster hunter survive when they can hear the monster creeping up on them? And surely _both of them would be safer…_ And , maybe… if Sam and Eileen spent some quality time together, working out the details…” Michele tilted her chin and gave him a smirk that finished the sentence.

“You want Sammy ta get laid?!” The hunter asked, honestly surprised.

“No! Well … yeah, maybe…. kind of. She’s a nice girl… woman, not a monster, or a stalker. One that he wouldn’t have to pretend with, because she’s a hunter too, someone who can take care of herself.

… I just, want Sam to be _happy,_ Dean.

I want that for **both** of you…” she shrugged, gazing at him like she was wondering if she’s gone too far, but was defiant about it. “I want you both to _LIVE_ , not just exist, that’s what friends want for each other. I know you’ve both been through a lot, and maybe it’s not my place to say this, and maybe it isn’t the time… but darn it! It’s never going to be the time. And you and Sam **_deserve_** some happiness….

Maybe …. Eileen…. could be part of that for Sam?” Her earnest green eyes sucker-punched him, she looked all of 12 years old with her rumpled hair and bare feet, sitting there cuddling her pussy cat in the dark.

“This ain’t a Hallmark movie.” He grunted uncomfortably and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yeah I know,” she sounded sad about it.

Gave him a hopeful smile that’d give Sam a run for his money. “Whether Sam reciprocates her feelings, that’s up to him, same with where it leads. But you _could_ refrain from being a jackass and teasing him about her, it’d help. Sam doesn’t like being told to do stuff does he? Consider for a moment that might extend to his love life.”

“That why you’re talkin’ to me insteada Sam? ‘bout your apprenticeship scheme for wayward kids. You _really_ just want me to lay off Sam, so he gets laid?”

She sighs “It’s _about_ _Claire_ _not getting killed_! She’s not much older than my girl Dean! Don’t you get she’s still a kid, whether she thinks so or not.

I’m talking to you because you’re the head of the house… people listen to _you_.” she patted her allergy factory and her mouth quirked sideways, “that and Sam gets this sucking lemons look on his face when ever I talk about hunting stuff. He thinks I’m twelve.” Which was kinda funny since Dean had been thinking she looked about that, “or that I belong in an ivory tower or something.” Her tone was frustrated.

She smothered a yawn. “The advice about butting out of Sam’s love life, is just food for thought.

It’s all food for thought really, it’s not like I can do _anything but suggest_ , is it?” Another yawn, her eyelids were drooping, she looked like she was all but falling asleep on him.

“Yeah okay. Go ta bed Mitch, you look like crap.”

“Gee thanks Dean, luv you too.” She muttered and logged off.

…ooo0ooo…

Next morning Sam was up before his brother.

Dean was probably catching up on sleep or simply laying round in bed listening to music.

Sam put on coffee and helped himself to a bowl of cereal, opened the morgue style (Dean’s description) fridge, to find the last few inches of milk have definitely turned during their absence.

(Again, he considered getting a carton of the long-life stuff for times like these, but Dean has it in his head that, ‘that shits radioactive and tastes like ass. Better no milk, than ass-milk that’ll make your hair fall out Sammy.’

Dean is particular about milk, which is weird because he doesn’t use it much, his gospel sates coffee should be black and not be covered in frothy shit, (yet he often takes a slug of Sam’s cappuccino when he brings back coffee, Sam’s pretty sure it couldn’t _always_ be big brother jerkishness that prompted the theft.)

Dean likes the milk that comes in glass bottles, produced by a Kansas farm about two hours away, occasionally they’ve driven past the place, and Dean’s mentioned Daisy the cow and lusty lesbian milk maids.

Dean’s head is a weird place that can hold both childhood whimsy and porn in close proximity without exploding. He probably _does_ think milk comes about by some process involving scantily clad milkmaids and buckets, instead of the reality of tankers, and mass milking machines.

Either way, Dean whines about the stuff in the cardboard cartons or plastic jugs saying it doesn’t taste right.

Which is weird, ‘right’ is what you know, and they grew up on no milk or the cheapest brand of milk, often on the edge of turning because dated stock was cheaper, or how where they stayed rarely had refrigeration past a bin or bucket filled from the ice machine down the hall (if there was an ice machine.)

Sam tipped the spoiled milk down the drain, and there was a small twinge when he did it, _(“can’t waste food Sam, dunno when Dad’ll be back.”)_

He always liked Dean’s spoilt milk pancakes, he hated the way they lived as kids, but Dean had this knack of manufacturing a silver lining like it was effortless, his trademark cocky grin seldom wavered (at least while Sam was in the room), it wasn’t until Sam entered his teens, and Dad was dragging Dean on more of his hunts, that he understood, it wasn’t effortless, despite the extra cash Dean slipped him.

Sam ate his cereal dry, wandered round the kitchen checking what supplies they could do with and began making a list.

Took his milkless coffee into the library, only to find his laptop missing, which meant he’ll have to do a virus scan _again_ , after Dean has finished— uh, whatever he was using it for. 

He wandered back to his room, and retrieved his duffle from where he’d tossed it the night before, carried it to the laundry room.

The washer was half full of Dean’s darks, open and waiting for Sam’s.

He sorted through his bag, added his own and started the machine. One of them would swap loads later.

Sam decided to go for a run.

Spring was here now, he’d glimpsed the world outside the impala’s windows stretching and shaking off winter. 

He felt a bone deep need to breath it for himself, and to be part of it, instead of looking at it whilst driving from place to place.

He’s been wound too tight for far too long, needs to flex and breath. Thinking of how Dean’s hands were clenched on the steering wheel, white knuckled, the previous evening, he suspects Dean does too.

When he returned from his run Dean was eating left over takeout from out of the fridge which had to be a week old, and reading something on the tablet. He informed him that the Bletchley Park code breakers and that Voynich manuscript were actual things, and they needed to go on a supply run.

…ooo0ooo…

On the way back from their supply run, Sam got a text message from Eileen requesting a FaceTime call.

The conversation went pretty much as Mitch had described.

And yeah, Dean could see that their own personal hobbit version of Oprah is right. Eileen’s hot for Sammy.

He heroically restrained himself from making any comment, except a short, “Well that’s cute,” after Eileen hung up. Wondered if Mitch saw him trying to ‘butt out of Sam’s love life,’ as suggested.

Privately thought that Mitch was dead wrong about Sam, _(were they private thoughts?!)_ Sammy wasn’t put off by a bit of brotherly ribbing, it was just that ... Sam’s loyal. He lets off steam occasionally, like any dude, but Dean knows…Jess was it for Sam.

Eileen… well, she isn’t Jess.

Dean spent the rest of the drive home listening to Sam with one ear while wondering…

About Mitch’s visions, and how they worked.

Why she was fixated on Sam.

Whether he ought to be more worried about the whole thing.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, (he’d know) and okay, she seems to mean well, but maybe Miss Helpful is screwing up the time space continuum somehow.

He wondered uncomfortably who’s eyes Mitch saw the conversation with Eileen through, his, Sam’s, Eileen’s, or if she’d been like a ghost in the back seat through it all.

Caught himself looking in the rear-view mirror a time or two, half expecting to see a ghostly shape back there.

Wondered if there were any protective sigils that could shut her out, thought he oughta look into it.

The thought of Sam’s pet looking out of his eyes… frankly it made his skin crawl.

…ooo0ooo…

“Just saying, Dean, even with Cas and every Hunter we know working this, we still got basically nothing. At least, you know, maybe Crowley...” Sam proceeded his brother down the bunkers stairs and dropped the bag he was carrying onto the map table.

“No, dude,” Dean dropped his own bag, gestured widely “we're not calling _Crowley_...”

A sound drew both brothers’ attention; to the man seated in their library, looking for all the world like he belonged there.

Mick Davies.

“Hello, boys. Do come and have a drink.” Mick greeted.

Dean brushed by Sam’s shoulder, took up his usual defensive position, half a step in front of his brother.

“Did you break into our house?” Sam asked as he and Dean strode towards the intruder as a unit.

“Our house. Men of Letters.” Mick corrected. “Did you know your key opens every chapter house in the world?” he continued easily.

The Winchesters strode towards him, slow measured steps, exuding a sense of menace that the British man seemed completely unaware of.

“Well, you did say you'd give me a second chance.”

“Yeah, that doesn't mean we wanna hang out.” Dean grated.

“You here for a reason?”

“I am, and it's a bit urgent.” Mick put down the glass of whiskey he’d been sipping and leaned forward.  
“Some time ago, the home office recorded some sort of cosmic shock wave. Very rare. And after a few months of...”

“Nephilim.” Sam answered shortly.

“You knew?” It was Micks turn for surprise.

“Yeah, we knew.” The elder Winchester confirmed.

“How?”

“Sort of a long story.”

“Well, I've got time.”

Dean picked up the bottle of whiskey and the two empty glasses from in front of Mick. Noted it was the good stuff with a quirk of his eyebrow.

“Well, Lucifer jacked the President...and then knocked up his girlfriend.”

“And now, she’s on the run with Dagon, who is a Prince of Hell,” the brothers traded off the story. Dean poured two glasses of the whiskey.

“I see.” Mick closed his eyes and looked pained. “And you didn't tell me this because...?”

“Cause it's kind of a need-to-know kind of thing.” Dean answered handed his Sam a glass and perched on the table next to him, facing Mick.

Mick rose from his seat agitated. “The Devil is having a...” He clenched his fists and looked pained “…child. It seems like something we'd need to know!” Mick paced across the library “Where is this woman now?”

“Not sure. We had her. Tried to help her, but, she, uh...” Sam faltered.

“We lost her.” Dean supplied.

“…Yeah.”

“I'm sorry. You... you had her? And you let her live?” Mick spluttered.

“Look, it's not Kelly's fault, okay? She didn't know Lucifer was her boyfriend.” Dean argued, not looking at Mick.

“Oh, sure, yeah. It could happen to anyone.”

“Plus, she'd agreed to end the pregnancy. And I guess she changed her mind. Even with everything Kelly knew, it... it was still her kid. She couldn't.” Sam took a breath.

“Then you should have! You! Should've shot her between the eyes. Immediately.”

“Oh, why? 'Cause that's what you would've done?” Dean snarled, second chances didn’t mean they’d forgotten Hayden.

“Kind of like you killed that werewolf? 'Cause from what I remember, that really messed you up.” Sam contributed in synch with his brother’s thoughts and hoping it cut.

“Yeah, 'cause you're so big on second chances and all.”

“Yeah... yes. I'm not saying it was gonna be easy..” Mick looked unhappy “But the Code demands it.” Mick finished in a rush, as if quoting scripture.

“Ohhh. _The Code_.” Dean scoffed disgusted.

“This is not some werewolf. Do... Do you have any idea what will happen if this abomination is born?” The British man bristled.

“Mick... we're handling it, all right? We'll find her.” Sam soothed, the panic in the Man of Letters eyes was doing nothing for his peace of mind.

“So, until then... I say we drink.” Dean offered calmly.

Mick Davies starred at them both, as if they were insane, but he emptied his glass. There was an edge to it, like a deer caught in the headlights waiting for the impact.

Sam could almost pity him.

The thing Mick Davies could never understand was, that this was just another day for the Winchesters, after your first or second time averting the end of the world, you learnt to roll with it.

Whiskey helped.


	68. What Dreams May Come

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 68: What dreams may come**

Sam walks into the kitchen.

Dean’s dressed and cooking something that smells good.

He’s walked in halfway through Dean telling an enthusiastic story about something or other.

“Morning sunshine.” His brother calls brightly.

Michele’s leaning against the island bench and shoots him one of her quiet smiles in greeting, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to, the smile fills him with a steady warmth.

Life is good.

A feeling of vague disquiet creeps into his mind, seeing Michele leaning there in the Bunkers kitchen doesn’t feel right, like she not supposed to be here; but he pushes the thought away, because that’s stupid, Michele’s always with them _(‘even when she’s not,’_ the disquiet whispers softly, making no sense.)

“Soups up.” Dean calls, distracting him from pursuing his thoughts, he steps closer with plates of food.

Suddenly, the sight and smell of the food makes his stomach lurch, abruptly he thinks he might hurl.

“Dean I… I don’t think I can…” He stammers.

His brother sighs, looking put upon and harassed, exchanges a glance with Michele.

Michele smiles, and touches Deans arm gently in as if to comfort him, her smile looks sad and worried around the edges.

“It’s okay Sam,” she says softly, “but you _do_ need something…” she picks up one of the men of letters coffee cups and a knife from the chopping board beside her.

_And slits her wrist._

The blood flows, scarlet and vivid over her cupped palm, down her fingers and into the cup.

Sam watches avidly, feels his mouth flood with saliva.

“You spoil him, you know that?” Dean snarks without heat.

Michele shrugs and lifts her chin slightly in defiance. “It’s my life and I’ll spoil him if I want to. It’s what he needs.” She answers his brother carelessly, walks closer and presses the cup between Sam’s palms, as if her life’s blood is no more of note than a cup of coffee. Dean wraps her wrist with a bandana.

Two sets of green eyes watch him as he breaths deeply, savoring the scent and lifts the cup to his lips.

….

Sam jerked awake, his heart hammering, and head splitting with an almighty hangover. His guts twisting with sickening nausea as he rolls over.

There are parts of his body that are confused by the abrupt end of the dream.

Parts that **_want_** , as if he’s been plunged back in time, to that tangled up mistaken thing between him and Ruby.

One of his biggest mistakes. All his darkest hungers sated in one shameful, twisted, pride driven package.

Sam rubbed at his face blearily, and buried his face into his pillow, breathed slow and even until his body calmed, told himself it was only morning rhythms and the hangover, confusing his subconscious.

That, that part of his life is long gone and never happening again, it may feel nearly as bad as demon blood withdrawal, _but it’s not._

 _He doesn’t want blood,_ or anything else like that, not from Michele.

That would be wrong.

Michele’s visions and blood go together, she can’t seem to help trying to mother them, it’s that simple. His subconscious is finding an outlet for his guilt over how they benefit from something that’s draining the life out of her.

…ooo0ooo…

Mick’s Davies head was full of half heard thoughts and choppy static like a radio station at the edge of it’s coverage zone.

He was hung over, so maybe that was it.

His thoughts seemed to revolve around the face of a boy, Timothy, a ?friend? from his childhood, but they circled restlessly towards and away from Sam and Dean Winchester also.

As if the boy and the American hunters were linked somehow.

What Michele can comprehend of the Man of Letters emotions about the boy from his past are messy and conflicting; grief and triumph, pride and shame, justification and regret, certainty and misgiving.

A flash of memory, Mick’s hands, much smaller and younger than now, stained with blood. He’d done something, proved himself, somehow.

Had he been in some schoolboy fight with his friend? Maybe dobbed Timothy in for breaking the rules and received a bloody nose for his trouble? Michele couldn’t tell, the weird choppy static in the man’s head obscured almost everything.

Another image rose and flashed through Mick’s mind, a severe woman.

Dr Hess, headmistress, Mick’s mind labeled the face.

Below roiled another catalog of conflicting emotions. 

Mick Davies is terrified of the woman, but also weirdly grateful to her.

Desperation to prove himself, triumph, vindication, guilt and horror, twine together around that fear and gratitude.

The woman looms large in his thoughts like a deity, one capable of bring bountiful harvest or calamity at a whim. Like some dark Aztec goddess, one people pray never singles them out or looks them in the eye. 

Mick’s dread of the headmistress reminds Michele of her son’s interaction with _his_ school principal, the way her boy goes pale and shaken if he is forced to share air with the woman.

It softens her attitude a smidge towards Mick Davies – Frodo, the other hobbit (Sam’s codename for Mick still irks her in a way she probably oughtn’t examine) …. _Maybe, possibly,_ Mick isn’t like Toni Bevell.

Maybe… but, Michele _doesn’t like_ the British men of letters, doesn’t trust them, suspects there’s something hinkey going on with the whole organisation.

Something is off about their goals and how they work.

An organisation with as much funding and knowledge as they appear to have should have done **_more_** with the potential werewolf cure by now. 

It seems they’ve just messed around with a small sampling of mice, then they threw up their hands and wrote the whole thing off!!

The 1930’s was a long time ago… Science has come a long way and Michele **cannot believe** they couldn’t have made progress if they’d _tried_. Michele knows how disease research works. What Sam told her of the little he knows, smacks of kitchen-sink back room hobby experimentation, not of a powerful well-resourced organisation searching for a cure, where are the simian trials? Where’s the mention of a vaccine? (Vaccinate a population and the disease becomes extinct due to lack of carriers, polio and small pox for example.)

One human subject, (Michele suspects it may have all been the back-room researcher trying to save someone he cared about,) dying in agony whilst testing the cure, it **_is_** awful and horrible … but, this is an organisation that trains their operatives in torture. (Michele didn’t miss that gem.) Not a commune of vegan tree huggers, it’s an organisation that’s okay with torture and **_killing_** **_people._** Squeamishness about animal testing? balking at a few dead monkeys for a higher cause?! Somehow, Michele finds _that_ hard to swallow or believe.

It makes her wonder if they actually want a cure...

The British men of letters have been **_killing_** every person bitten or born a werewolf on their patch of earth for nearly 80 years, while a potential cure was right there?!!

Claire’s recovery proves the plasma therapy could have been _saving people_.

Maybe 1 in 10 living and cured are crappy odds, but it’s hell of a lot better odds than **_Killing all of them._**

Mick’s thoughts flick to Sam and Dean again and the staticky connection of the vision seems to clear, forcing Michele’s full attention out of her head, and back into Mick’s.

Mick dwells on the previous night drinking and talking with the Winchester brothers.

Dean’s expansive stories of their exploits, Sam’s quieter more measured additions.

The camaraderie and ease between the siblings, and the way they talk about their mission to save lives and protect the innocent, it is rather admirable.

They have carried out their life mission by trial and error, laboriously cobbling together gleaned information and experience, without the benefit of formal education such as he had at Kendrick’s. Because of that, there is a grass-roots simplicity to these men.

Their worldview is not the same as Mick’s, they fly by the seat of their pants, no code, no orders, just their own best guess.

They aren’t however, the bumbling idiots and vicious renegades Lady Bevell made them out to be in her reports.

They do not squat in the men of letters bunker like filthy savages despoiling and ruining what they do not understand.

It is obvious the Winchester brothers have things to add to the sum of Men of Letters knowledge, a unique outlook that has led to discoveries brushed over in the brother’s stories during previous night’s drinking session, hints that require investigation. Surely acquiring and recording that knowledge justifies patience.

Both brothers are still rather prickly and mistrustful, but Mick is hopeful.

He wonders how differently things would have turned out; if Lady Bevell (or another operative) had turned up with a bottle of decent Scotch and some polite queries in the beginning; Instead of how things played out with the shooting, abduction and torturing of the younger brother.

***

A weird flicker of perception.

Michele could tell time had passed, now Mick was walking down one of the bunker corridors showered and dressed.

Voices came from ahead.

Dean’s voice.

“Yeah, you look crappier!” The older Winchester snipped, presumably at his brother, “I gotta hand it to Mick.”

Mick pauses interested to hear the conversation.

“Man, you get him started, that guy can drink. I mean, we can drink, but he's got, like, the Can Drink gold medal.” Mick smiled to himself, he’d earned some respect last night? Good to know.

“Hey, you talk to Mom lately?” Sam asked of his brother as Mick reached the door to the kitchen.

“Oh, I shouldn't worry about your mum.” He greeted cheerily making both Winchesters flinch and stare at him. “Her and Ketch make quite the team.”

Dean blinked at him blearily. “Would you want your mom working with him?” He asked sourly.

Fetching himself tomato juice from the fridge and a glass he regarded the hunters easily. “Well, I can't say. I never really knew my mum - Or my dad. I was on the streets till the Men of Letters found me.”

Both Winchesters studied him as if he were a new and slightly oddly shaped puzzle.

“How did they find you?” Sam asked brow furrowed, and eyed the tomato juice in his hand uncomfortably, as if it were something distasteful.

“I, uh, picked a member's pocket. Not on purpose. I was just after a couple of quid. But I got a cursed coin from ancient Babylon instead.”

“Yeah, sure. That could happen to anyone.” Dean muttered.

“The Men of Letters decided I showed promised and signed me up.” He took a breath. “They gave me a life. They, um...” a flash of Timothy crossed Mick’s mind again, _(‘please, please don’t’)_ a memory of his voice begged. 

“You all right?” Sam asked.

Mick found his scrutiny and concern uncomfortable.

“Yeah. Always.” He brushed it off, picking up his glass of tomato juice, “Got any vodka?”

Sam and Dean both groaned and Dean rested his head back on the table. 

They sure didn’t look much like unswayable rough tough hunters right then. Mick found it comforting. It gave him hope.

He doesn’t want ….

***

The vision jolted away, a move that lurched and jarred as she was jerked away, and slammed somewhere new.

***

The world is suspended, no light and a sensation of floating.

A drum beat keeps time in the darkness.

Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub, lub dub, lub dub….

It is a metronome that encompasses the universe.

Below and threading through that sound is another, one that rushes and surges and reminds Michele of wind or waves.

It is the most insane thing, whereever this place is, she feels like she knows it, at some deep-seated level.

It feels like love, like home, like all things good and safe.

They/she flex in the darkness, move in the warm depths of darkness, as they/she flex she sees a small gold hued flare of… (‘light’ Michele’s mind supplies) the flare of … light… briefly illuminates the cocoon of her world, but she can’t comprehend what she sees.

A muffled cry pierces the now darkened space of her world, the surge of the wind pauses, then becomes staccato and uneven, the metronome beat speeds. Lubdub, lubdub, lubdub, lubdub, lubdub, lubdub…

“Doyouneedapillowor...whatever?” A voice grates.

Michele struggles to translate the meaning of the sound, as if language is just out of reach.

The world tilts, and there is a feeling of pressure and a groan, and the surging and beat of the universe steadies.

“What'swrong?” The grating voice intrudes again.

“Ikeepgettingtheseweirdlittlepains.” The voice is so close, all around, reverberating and bringing a flood of warmth, the voice is good.

“I'msureeverything'sfine.”

“Why?Becausethisishowyoufeltallthetimesyouwerepregnant? Ineedtoseeadoctor.” The sound of this voice is everything right good and soothing, but the way the metronome beat of the universe increases and a wash of something agitated floods in, is not.

It sparks an emotion the mind Michele inhabits cannot fully comprehend, but Michele knows it as dislike.

“Nodoctorwillunderstandthischild. Youbarelydo. We'vebeenheretoolong. Weshouldgo.” This voice is the cause of the change within the universe. She/they _Dislike_ the intrusion of this voice, wish it would go away. Want to be alone with the soothing rush and slow-paced metronome of the universe, want the the voice of all that is good to be raised in harmonics and humming melody that bring bliss. This is remembered and good. Want to hear it whisper the secrets of the universe meant only for them/her.

“No! Yousaidthatyouwouldhelpme. Iwannaseeadoctor. I'mnotgoinganywhereuntilIknowmybaby'ssafe.” A feeling of pressure, cradled safe and warm in the darkness a wash of something soothing and fierce, that cries _protected_ , _how it should be_ , _always_ and _LOVED_.

…..

Michele comes back to herself from the vision. Back to sitting naked in a bath with water now cooling and stained crimson with shed blood.

The pain in her head is immense, worse than ever before, but the blood tinged tears on her cheeks come mostly from leaving that dark, warm, protected universe.


	69. Sympathy for the Devil

** The Thing You Hate **

****

**Chapter 69: Sympathy for the devil**

“Why does it have to be?” Michele’s voice is thoughtful, more like she is talking to herself; and maybe she is…

They’ve been sitting in silence for the past hour, each pursuing their own projects with an open video call bridging the distance between them.

Dean finds this weird, wants to know what the point of calling someone then basically ignoring them is, Sam can’t explain it to his brother, that he finds it restful, saying it reminded him of cramming for finals with Jess, simply earned him a look that said Dean was questioning his sanity.

Sam glances at the laptop screen and away from the faded Latin document he’s been puzzling out. (It appears to be an account by a 13th century cleric, concerning the pregnancy of a cloistered nun who claimed her child was fathered by an angel. The missive was cataloged under prophecy, rather than with the collection on angels, apparently because the pregnant nun also had a series of prophetic dreams regarding the spread of the plague, across Europe.)

“Why does _what_ have to be…” He asked, and she looked up, blinking at him like she was waking up.

“The Nephilim, Kelly Kline’s baby— Why does it _have_ to be an abomination that will kill us all?”

“Michele, the father of Kelly’s Baby is … an arch angel. N- not just any arch angel, L-Lucifer…” he clenched his fists under the table, heart stuttering like his voice had done over _that name_ , he took a deep breath.

Michele tilted her head slightly, looked at him biting her lip, and he knew she had picked up on it.

“Sam, _I’m_ _sorry_ , I should have known better than to...” She reached out towards the computer screen, then realized he was beyond her reach and dropped her hand. Stared at him with liquid eyes like she longed to make it better somehow.

It’s different from Dean’s response to the same thing, Dean either ignores these moments or becomes a storm of anger and reprisal.

This feels uncomfortably like acknowledgement and patience. He’s unsure how to respond, wants to shake it off before it soaks in and dissolves his hard-won shell of Winchester defense, and uncovers how weak and broken he is.

He tugs a hand roughly through his hair, “Its fine Michele,” he pushes away her softness verbally. “The angels, the men of letters, everyone it seems, agree that this child is a bad thing. What makes _you_ think differently?”

“Because there’s proof that Nephilim don’t automatically destroy the world, there’s the Bible …. Genesis 6:4”

“I _have_ read that verse Michele.”

“It describes them as _heroes_ and men of renown.”

“Sure but… the verse that follows, it says how evil humanity had become and how God regretted making mankind. ‘Hero’ isn’t the only or best translation of that word, Michele. Gibborim, means strong, or powerful. It’s a word used to describe Nimrod, the builder of the Tower of Babel. According to the Lore, the tower, wanting to reach to Heaven, was for the purpose of **_killing_** **_God_**. 

Nephilim are _powerful,_ and power often corrupts.”

“Really? You’re saying Nimrod was a Nephelim? … I read something once, it argued The Antichrist would be from the line of Nimrod, so if he was a Nephelim…”

“I think we already averted the apocalypse,” he told her mildly, “we actually met an Antichrist too… a boy called Jesse.”

“The angel’s fake version of the apocalypse… Antichrist, as in joy buzzer kid?” Michele looked unimpressed and unconvinced. “See that’s exactly my point, he was powerful enough to bend reality, but he’s probably living quietly in Australia right now, doing no harm to anyone.”

“Australia?”

“Mmmm yeah, he was staring at a poster of Australia before he vanished on you, it was sort of implied.”

“Well, huh…!”

She rolled her eyes at him, “I sometimes think that your life would be easier if you were more of a narcissist, Sam. I know mine would be.”

“W-what does that mean?”

“You know nothing Jon Snow… but that’s mainly because you don’t want to. Carver Edlund’s books, my …. The Thi-“ She stopped herself and an emotion chased across her face before she plunged on. “All you see are things designed to torment you…so you ignore them… all of them…” she rubbed at her lips and dropped her head as she spoke. “There is stuff in those books.”

“Such as?”

“Such as Clipshow, my friend Peaches is right… the spell that made the angels fall, and locked heaven, the one Metatron tricked Castiel into helping him with… it used a Nephilim’s heart… She, the Nephilim, was working as a waitress... they called her an abomination because of _what_ she was, but Castiel didn’t want to… kill her… he said she was **_innocent_** and Metatron didn’t deny it.” She frowned at him, “he only argued that her death was for the greater good of their people, and would stop angelic destruction spilling out down onto earth.

She _was_ strong, strong enough that it took two angels to… kill her, but it seemed she was just trying to defend herself.  
In Carver Edl- Chuck’s book, it played out like she was a sweet, nice 20 something girl minding her own business, working as a waitress. Then Castiel and Metatron turned up…  
I just… She didn’t come across as evil.”

Cas had never spoken of that Nephelim he and Metatron killed, Sam could hardly blame him, things back then, they’d been crazy and complicated. As for Chuck’s books he’d tried reading a few, but between the blow by blow account of his life’s least-greatest hits and Dean’s graphic sexual exploits he hadn’t been able to stomach them.

“Even if Nephilim aren’t inherently evil, Michele. _This_ Nephilim will be _the spawn of Satan._ Its mother is out there _somewhere_ , with a prince of hell known for psychotic savagery.” He reminded her, wearily running a hand over his face.

“I know… it’s just… I know someone else an angel once described as an abomination, who was supposed to destroy the world … but he _didn’t._  
**_You didn’t!_  
**Angels can be wrong. So can the British men of letters!”

Sam blew out a heavy breath. “Eileen’s following leads, but we _still can’t find Kelly_. Unless we find her, whether her child is a world ending abomination, or not… it’s sorta a moot point.”

“Did you talk to Eileen about Claire?” Her idea; Dean pitched it as, ‘The Apprentice: hunter edition,’ it had surprised him, as had the weird byplay between Michele and Dean, _and_ Dean’s insistence he take point on things.

“Both of them, Yes.”

“And?!...”

“And, they’ll think about it.”

She nodded and let it go.

“Were you researching Nephelim?”

“No, I was umm writing...

Mick lurking creepily in your library. Asking about Nephelim. Saying you should have _shot_ Kelly…” her sentences became clipped as she fiddled with the cross and rings strung around her neck, not meeting his eyes. Michele didn't like the British men of letters. It was another thing that she and Dean had in common…

“Ah...” Mick’s talk of shooting pregnant women, yes that would explain why Michele felt the need to table the theory that Nephelim weren’t automatically world annihilators.

What was he supposed to say? Moments like these, he became uncomfortably aware of the difference between their two worlds.

…ooo0ooo…

***

An old brick church or some similar building, now stripped to the bones.

Dingy brick columns and archways, high arched windows, striated by blackened bars, allowing only occluded light through glass opaque as cataracts.

Banks of melted candles burning in blackened candelabras gave a baroque air to the scene.

On a raised dais, flanked and back-lit by the warm glow of candles was a throne (there was no other word for the huge carved monstrosity.)

On the throne sat Crowley, King of Hell, dressed in his usual black suit with his silvery-purple tie, smirking a self satisfied smile at those assembled in front of him. Men and women dressed in suits. Were they demons? Michele was uncertain.

At the foot of the dais was someone Michele recognised. Head bowed subserviantly, bound in chains and collared the blonde man stood, facing the demon king of Hell.

He appeared unchanged and unharmed since last, she saw him.

‘ _Thankyou’_ she prayed silently, grateful he didn’t appear to have been tortured, starved or mistreated, despite her failure to find a way to help him. Candlelight glinted off a gold ring on the man’s left hand, a symbol that who ever this man was, he had been loved, was loved? As a husband, maybe a father.

“This is all done of your own free will, is it not?” Crowley asked gruffly.

“Yes, my Lord.” The reply was subservient, but not fearful.

“Look, kids. He goes where I tell him. He does what I tell him. He is _my dog_.” The demon king lifted his voice, announcing his control to the assemblage while smiling smugly.

“Showtime, Marmaduke.” The black clad ruler decreed with a careless wave of his hand.

“Yes, my Lord.” The captive stepped forward past Michele’s viewpoint, to facing the crowd.

“He's right, my friends. There is only one true ruler of Hell.” The blonde man declaired his voice pitched to carry to the back of the room.

“And that is me, is it not?” Crowley prompted.

“Oh, yes.”

“And you surrender your heartfelt support to that one true ruler?” Crowley coached his captive.

“Absolutely.”

“And what do you have to say to those who are still unsure of whom they must obey?”

“I say this – anyone who does not support this one true king, can be assured of suffering unendurable and everlasting agony.”

This was greeted with thick silence.

“I don't hear applause.” The blonde man prompted, he almost sounded amused for a moment.

The crowd of ?demons? begrudgingly began to clap

…as Michele gasped and surfaced from the vision into pain and blood, to find both Winchester brothers staring at her.

***

…ooo0ooo…

Dean followed the sound of conversation to the library but walked in to dead silence, his brother was staring anxiously at the laptop screen.

Surveying the video feed, he cursed in surprise. Mitch looked like she was unconscious or having a fit, blood ran down her face soaking the front of her shirt, but the _really_ freaky thing was her eyes, they looked like tiny fireworks were going off inside them. Sam’s eyes flicked constantly between the image and the clock in the corner of the screen. 

How long had she been out? Was she breathing?

The light in her eyes went out.

Sam had watched too many women he cared about die. Where the hell were her husband and her kids? Shouldn’t someone be calling 911?

Relief, when she gasped in that first ragged gulp of air.

‘ _Okay not dead.’  
_Pushing herself upright in her chair, she blinked painfully at the camera.

“Welcome back,” Sam murmured quietly, face schooled to mildness.

But Dean noted the catch in his breathing, and the way his brother’s hands clenched and unclenched against his knees under the table.

Sam’s body was tense, practically thrumming with tension.

Sam hated watching good people suffer and you couldn’t deny Sammy’s little gal pal was hurtin’ no matter how she might try to down play it.

When Sam ended up oozing blood he’d been in agony, back when he was doing his freaky psychic boy stint.

Had to be a similar deal, right?  
It hadn’t escaped his notice either, that the tears she blinked away were stained with blood, the freaky light show was probably rupturing something.

“It was the blonde man again, Crowley still has him.” Michele hushed, licked her lips and grimaced, wiped at her face with the back of her hand.

“Y-you should go clean up, and rest...” Sam stammered.

“Ugh soon, the bathroom seems like a long way. Let me get the vision out first, please?”

Sam nodded reluctantly still looking tense, shifted in his seat, blunt nails digging into the denim of his jeans. The worst was over wasn’t it?

Michele relayed what she’d seen haltingly, she was pretty good with the details, quoted what was said word for word, even got the ponce of Crowley’s gravelly accent right. Sam coaxed a few extra details out of her, but you couldn’t really ask her for more.

“So blonde dude isn’t human or an angel, probably a high-level demon, someone that’s been challenging Crowley for power.”

“Sounds like it, Yeah.”

“A demon?” Michele frowning at them.

“If blondie was straight up human he wouldn’t have the same amount of stubble, he’d have a beard by now… he was wearin’ the same clothes an’ didn’t look any worse for wear. That, plus Crowley’s little show of dominance, it was an object lesson for the Hench demons. The phrases, ‘only one true ruler of hell,’ ‘surrendering heartfelt support’… imply blondie’s got pull in the ranks.”

“But … it’s a demon _inside_ a man, he’s someone’s husband.”

Sam held up a placating hand “hold up, Michele, not necessarily, not even probably…H- high ranking demons they keep their meat-suits for years.”

“He’s right Mitch, the major players they don’t like sharin’ real-estate. Blondie, the actual dude… he’s probably dead or so broken he’s beyond saving. Demons ride their meat-suits hard, especially the heavy hitters.”

“No! There’s a reason I’m seeing him. This is the second time! _I’ve got to help him!_ ” She went to get up, as if she’d rush off to points unknown and fight the minions of hell by herself.  
Standing up too fast gave her head rush, and kicked her back onto her ass again.

Which pissed her off more, and left her glaring at them through her hair, all pale skin, gore and feral eyes.

Sam winced, “Hey hey, calm down, b r e a t h, _Michele please_!” Little brother deployed puppy eyes, but they had no effect.

Dean felt a moment of gratitude that Mitch knew bupkis about demon summoning.

“Mitch, cut it out, look at me!” He growled. “Give me _one_ detail that’ll help us track this guy, just one. You _know_ we’ve got nothin’ … Crowley, he ain’t our friend and he ain’t gonna give us the thing he’s usin’ to cement his power structure, just for asking! okay? Dial it back a notch.”

She blinked at him, swiped her hair back out of her face and bit her lip.

“Sorry Dean, Sam. You’re right...” She flashed them both a look that reminded him of Puss in Boots from Shrek 2.

“First rule of hunting is you can’t save everyone, sweetheart. It’s not nice… but it’s a fact of life. Take a breather Puss in boots... unfluff your tail ‘kay?”

“…okay... Puss in boots?”

“You say you’re the frickin’ cat in this fairytale. You got the sexy accent. Ability to go zero to a hundred in naught point five… the kewpie doll eyes…”

That drew a half smile out of her.

“Pffff … Yeah, _whatever_ … maybe, we both do the ‘don’t hurt me I’m little and cute’ thing, that’s about it. Swords and swashbuckling? So not me, I couldn’t even ‘stick em with the pointy end.’”

Sam’s phone announced a text.

“That Mick?”

“Nah … Eileen, says she’s got something. Wants to meet.”

Dean caught Mitch’s hopeful smile at Eileen’s name, she looked like she was gonna start asking Sam about grand-kids any day. Seriously?! And she claimed _he_ wasn’t subtle.

“She may as well come to us, she’s a legacy too, right?” That earned him one of Mitch’s proud Mom smiles, one he so didn’t deserve.

“Yeah, I should go, clean up, before everyone gets back from the mall.”

Sam gave the woman a searching look, frowning at her all puppy eyed. “You’re going to be okay?”

“Y e s S a m,” she sighed “Always.” 

Then she smirked “Now go clean up your rooms, you’ve got guests coming.” She poked out her tongue and logged off still grinning.


	70. Double Bind

** The Thing You Hate **

****

**Chapter 70: Double bind**

****

Michele’s husband drove back from the mall feeling exhausted and irritable.

Five steps out of the car-park and into the mall, and it had become apparent he hadn’t thought the outing through very well.

He’d forgotten how much his eldest son hated public spaces. He’d also forgotten how quick and uncoordinated his youngest son was and how much teenaged daughters didn’t want to be seen dead with their father.

Over the past 8 years, since Michele became a stay at home Mum, he’s lost touch with what it is like to be the one in charge of the kids. His time as a solo dad seems light years ago, in a galaxy far, far away.

Finally, he had resorted to café bribery and chocolate cake, to keep all four children in one place, and somewhat happy.

Even then, his daughters only had eyes for their cell phones, his eldest son ended up curled up under a chair with his hands over his ears, and his youngest ended up with more cake on him and on the floor surrounding him, than in him.

Now he was returning, a humbled man. Schooled in gratitude, but also with a small measure of pride, knowing that he had done a good thing.

Taken his kids out and away from their mother, because he could tell she needed a break.

A break from the kids (and maybe him.)

She loves them. They both do, but the kids are hard work. -Especially the boys- even when you are at 100%. And lately 100% was something his wife wasn’t, thanks to the migraines and nosebleeds.  
Once he’d thought, if you got sick, you went to the doctors or hospital, they worked out what was wrong, and they fixed it! That was their job, what his taxes paid for.

But, first with his son’s autism diagnosis and now, with whatever is plaguing his wife, he is ready to throw that belief out the window.

Somehow, the endless doctors have found no explanation for, or way of fixing what’s wrong with Michele and the transfusions and other stuff don’t seem to be cutting it.

He isn’t the world’s smartest bloke, a working-class guy with no illusions. Usually he leaves all the medical stuff to Michele, she has the degree and the smarts for it; he just can’t understand how a bunch of highly trained medical professionals can be so damned clueless.

Human beings _are_ a bit more complex than an alarm system or electrical circuit. He knows _they_ get intermittent unexplained faults.

Sometimes it’s user error, sometimes it is a rat gnawing the cables inside the wall, or a circuit board will be dying, things that aren’t obvious... But you find the problem and you fix it! You don’t go home till you have.

Michele is a darn sight more important than some alarm system! Why don’t the doctors get that? Why don’t they find the problem _and fix it?_ Those damn doctors get paid way more than he does, how can they kid themselves they are doing their job, or sleep at night?

He realises he is clenching the steering wheel too tightly as he drives. Can feel it creaking under the strain, a fragment of some movie flits through his head (‘they look like good, big, strong, hands… but I couldn’t hold on to them…’) Phillip shakes his head irritated and pushes the errant thought out of his head; takes a deep breath, and forces himself to loosen his grip.

It’s just… if the trip to the mall had reminded him of anything, it is of how much Michele does. For him, for the kids, for all the random people who kept walking up to them and asking, “where’s Michele / where’s your mum?”

His wife thinks she goes through the world unnoticed, or wanting to be, describes herself as nothing special.

She doesn’t see herself like he does.

She looks at him like he was sweet but slightly deluded when he struggles to explain how beautiful she is to him, says she’d answer to cute, but he’s mixed her up with someone else if he is using the word beautiful.

He knows Michele compared herself unfavourably with the twin’s birth mother. _That woman_ been all mocha skin, legs that went for miles, airbrushed perfection _on the outside_.

Jewel had spent hours on her appearance. But when you scratched her surface you found there was little beyond it, he saw to late she had been selfish and selfabsorbed, with the attention span of a goldfish and the maternal instincts of a cuckoo. 

Michele is a different kind of beautiful, she rarely wears makeup, and cares little for fashion or brand labels. But what she is goes all the way through. When you scratched _her_ surface, what you see is what’s there, through and through.

She lights up his world, everyone’s world, and makes wherever she is that bit brighter with everything she does.

He isn’t too proud to admit he’s terrified of losing that light and can’t escape the suspicion that there’s a ticking time bomb hiding behind his wife’s empathetic green eyes; waiting to explode and take her away from him.

…..

Upon returning home with his carload of kids, Phil found the light of his life sitting on their bed, fresh out of the shower.

She was wearing only bra and knickers, hair drying into ringlets over her pale shoulders.

It would have been one of his favourite looks, except for the blood-soaked towel in her lap and the slump to her shoulders.

“Another one?!” It wasn’t so much a question as a statement.

“Yeah,” Michele wrinkled her freckled nose in annoyance and fisted the bloody towel in her lap. “How was the mall?”

“An exercise in bribery and trauma. Life without you is a nightmare!” He made it sound like he was kidding, but he wasn’t.

“Bribery?”

“Muffin break’s chocolate cake.”

She pouted at the mention of the cafe, eyes doing their kicked kitten thing, over having missed out.

It made him grin.

Such a poor, hard done by little girl.

He held out the takeaway cappuccino he had been hiding behind his back.

“You love me!” She beamed.

“Say it with caffeine.” He grinned back, “Helps raise your blood pressure doesn’t it? Like the doctor ordered … Though, I _can_ _think of a much more fun way to do the same thing...”_ He eyed her current outfit speculatively and shut the bedroom door as he handed her the takeout cup.

She gave him a wide-eyed scandalised look, and picked up her shirt hurriedly, pulling it over her head while giving him an impish grin.

“How many times do I have to tell you? Sex does not cure everything for _Normal_ people, especially migraines!”

“ _Does too_ cure migraines! I sent you that link, the journal of Sept-algae or something.”

“Cephalalgia… the participants in _that study_ just filled out a _questionnaire,_ ” she sniffed snobbishly. “That’s pseudo-science in my book. You just like to _think_ sex fixes everything.”

“It does.” He replied staunchly.

His wife’s face suddenly dropped as if she thought of something unpleasant. “Sometimes sex gets people into trouble you know, sometimes children happen, kids that everyone says are bad news,” she murmured.

Sitting down beside her, he wrapped an arm round her shoulders and pulled her close. Wished he had the words to reassure her, that ‘everyone’ was wrong, what ever she’d overheard people say, that the two little boys she’d brought into the world were going to be good news for the world.

That ‘everyone’ knew _nothing_. He wished bitterly he was eloquent enough to convince her once and for all, that their sons weren’t different because of something she’d done, or hadn’t done.

Unfair stuff happened, and it wasn’t fair!

He ached to take away the guilt she loaded herself up with.

“Did you send out a questionnaire to find out what ‘everyone’ thinks?” He asked, “My wife, _she says_ what everyone thinks… isn’t acceptable data. Chris and Johnny … _they’re fine_ , okay?”

A look flickered over her face when he said that, she blinked and nodded slightly; resting her head against his shoulder with a sigh.

…ooo0ooo…

Michele felt a surge of guilt as she dropped her head to rest on her husband’s shoulder, she was living two lives. Phil thought she was worrying about their sons, when in truth her head had been full of the vision, thoughts of the Nephilim, and the weighty question of whether to tell the Winchesters what she’d seen.

***

Kelly Kline had been/ would be walking towards the Westview medical clinic, her hand making restless circular motions over her gravid stomach, soothing herself and her unborn child.

Kelly’s head had been filled with protective worry and anxious love for her child (Michele remembered a million moments doing the same motion. It was one of those pregnancy things every woman does, while she worries about or dreams of, the life growing within.)

Kelly has been feeling a bubbling mistrust towards Dagon, it was the reason she had practically sneaked out for this return visit to Doctor Turner, the woman/demon seemed to be helping her, true. But something was …off.

Kelly tried to push her doubts about Dagon aside, what other choice did she have, who else did she have to turn to? Dagon was right, it seemed everyone else wanted her baby dead.

Kelly cradled her stomach protectively, remembering her first glimpse of him; her son, in the grainy black and white scan image...

Maybe, if Doctor Turner wanted another scan, she could ask for a printed copy of the picture.

If Dagon hadn’t hustled her away so quickly before, she’d have thought of it the first time.

…Her baby’s first photo.

Kelly felt a sudden pang, thinking of photos made her miss her own mother intensely.

Her mother had raised her alone for the first ten years, before meeting Jack Kline, who had not only married Eva but insisted on legally adopting Kelly as well, saying he wanted both his girls to share his name. Kelly thought of him as her father.

What would Eva Kline think? Her only daughter knocked up and, on the run, carrying the child of Satan and or The President…

Eva’s political cynicism would probably lead her to think of both as interchangeably odious… Eva had been disappointed when Kelly decided to pursue a career in politics.

It was the beginning of Kelly growing away from her parents, and one reason she hadn’t fled home, Eva had always told her not to make her mistake of becoming a solo parent.

When she had started to tell her mother in that last phone call at Christmas, she _just couldn’t_ , it was better that they thought she was working on a project in another country. Safer!

But still, Kelly wondered if she did go home, would her mother simply let out a long sigh at the news, then rolled up her sleeves, favor her only daughter with a stern look saying, “So that was _yesterday_ , what are you going to do _Today_ my girl?”

Her stepdad, he’d be delighted, he always wanted more children, but it had never happened…

**Then suddenly** , Dean Winchester was there, falling into step alongside her, grabbing her arm. Making her jump and give a small shriek, her heart jumping like a cornered jack rabbit.

His grip was like iron, he growled at her to stay cool and walk with him, dragged her along, then shoved her into a huge black monstrosity of a car.

***

Dean was going to find Kelly Kline, but Sam wouldn’t be with him? Why?

Was Dean going to kill Kelly Kline like Mick Davies had suggested? Was that why he was keeping Sam out of it?

Michele’s thoughts flicked to and shied away from memories of the siren’s death. Remembered her horror, when she’d written Dean’s thoughts about mercy killing Claire, why he’d called her that day. 

If she told the Winchesters what she knew - where to find Kelly, would she be signing the woman’s death warrant? Or getting help for her? If she told the Winchesters and then Dean killed Kelly, it would be no different than if she pulled the trigger herself. The blood would be on her hands.

But if she didn’t tell the Winchesters what she’d seen, and the child became what everyone thought… not saying anything, it could doom the world.

It was a double bind.

Michele turned into her husband’s embrace and buried her face against his chest. Wishing she could just hide from everything.

…ooo0ooo…

“If you’re checkin’ up if we’re cleanin’ our rooms Mitch, I gotta say…”

Sam tried to shrug Dean off, from where he leaned over his shoulder.

Michele’s face was tense and strained, there was a tiny smudge of blood caught in the crease besides her mouth, it tugged at Sam’s attention maddeningly, made it obvious to him she’d had another vision.

“What? No, I...” She seemed to shake herself, dismiss Dean’s opening volley in the game they habitually played.

Instead she fixed her eyes on him with laser intensity.

“Sam, if you found Kelly Kline what would you do? Would you kill her? Would you do like Mick Davies suggested and shoot… shoot her between the eyes?”

“I … uh…” he ran a palm over his face, scrubbed the back of his neck. “We wouldn’t _want_ to do that Michele, we’d try and find something… a way… that uh … didn’t involve killing her.” He looked back up at the screen and met her eyes.

Her lips were trembling minutely, she took a shaky breath.

Her eyes cut sideways.

“Dean?”

“What do you want me to say Mitch?”

“I want the _truth_ Dean, it’s pretty much all I’ve ever asked of you. I want you to look me in the eye and tell me if you’re willing to wait, get her away from Dagon and look for another answer, or if you will make me be complicit in… two murderers.”

“M-Michele what _we_ do, t-that would be on us, _not_ you…”

“You know nothing Jon Snow!” She hissed the words. “It’ll be the siren over again, I’ll get to hold the gun _and_ feel the bullet shatter my skull.” Sam flinched, felt Dean’s glare demanding to know what she meant. “But that’s not the point, if anything… that’d be justice… if I give you this and then you— I can’t pretend I’m blameless. The man who passes the sentence _should_ wield the sword.

So Dean. Where was Sam when you were off grabbing Kelly? Did you ditch him, so you could take care of the ‘problem’ without Sam interfering?”

“Mitch you’re askin’ me why I did somethin’ I haven’t done yet. Don’t even know what you’re _talkin’_ about.”

Michele looked stricken “Shit!” (Sam thought distantly that he wasn’t sure if he’d heard her cuss before.) Her hand flew to her mouth and her face crumpled. _“What if I just put the idea in his head - what if it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy...?!?”_

Sam felt a moment of irritation, it wasn’t that he didn’t sympathise with her, but she was worse than Dean, trying to shoulder the blame for every goddamned thing, and a hell of a lot more emotional with it. 

Dean _was_ quite capable of deciding to ditch him so he could take care of business, without prophetic suggestion.

Thing was, Sam was pretty confident they’d gotten past that. He was also fairly sure his brother _couldn’t_ kill a pregnant woman in cold blood, even if there was a monster growing in her belly.  
He might set out to do it, sure. But now he is free of the mark, when push came to shove, Dean would cave... Unless there _really_ was no other way. The fact that Michele didn’t know that, it kinda pissed him off.

“Michele,” he kept his voice even, “we can’t _make_ you tell us what you know. Nothing we say can make you.” Pinching the bridge of his nose he drew a breath and looked down. “We’ve both killed, done things we regret. I think…you are old enough to know… there are times, when _there are no good answers_. If it comes down to a life against the whole world... _Tell me, seriously… where would you cast your vote_?”

Michele didn’t say anything for a long time, and he could see her moral struggle carved deep on her face.

“With you…” she spoke the words like an admission of guilt, “with you **_both_**.” Her lips twitched. “That’s why I’m here… You… you’re both _good_ men, you’ll … try. I’m sorry Dean, sorry for forgetting that.  
God Himself was willing to trust you at the end of all things, how can I not do the same?” She blew out a breath.

“I saw Kelly walking towards a medical clinic, _Westview Medical clinic.”_

Sam opened a search engine, started searching for a Westview Medical clinic.

Found eight of them in six different states.

“She was worrying about her baby, she doesn’t trust Dagon but she feels like she has no choice, because she _loves_ her son and everyone wants to kill him.

Dagon didn’t know about the appointment... with _Doctor Turner.”_

Sam ran a concurrent search for Medical Doctors with the last name Turner.

“…Kelly was there alone, she practically snuck out for the appointment. It wasn’t her first with the doctor… so there’ll be records, she was wishing she had a printout of her baby’s scan photo.” Michele’s face took on that, ‘Mom look,’ she got when she talked about her kids, “she didn’t get to ask the first time, because Dagon hustled her away too quickly.”

Sam saw Dean roll his eyes and pull a face like he tasted something sour.

Annoyingly, Turner was a popular last name for Medical doctors. Five of the Westview’s had Doctor Turners listed on their staff records (one had two) … but there were no guarantees, the Doctor Turner they were looking for wasn’t a new hire at one of the others and the staff records just hadn’t been up to date yet.

“Michele what else can you give me?”

“Kelly’s Mum is called Eva? She was a nurse and solo mum for a long time… took lots of photos of Kelly as a child… her Mum doesn’t like politics… She married Kelly’s stepfather when Kelly was ten, she’s their only kid. Both Kelly and her Mum took his name… Kelly thinks of him as her Dad, she really misses them, but she wants them to be safe... she told them she was going out of the country on business…Kelly, she feels so alone.”

Those details, _those_ were the details Sam didn’t want.

Kelly Kline had been a pawn in the game, a victim, a way of luring Lucifer out. Then, she and her unfortunate pregnancy had become a loose end that needed tying up. Michele was turning her into more, filling in her past and feelings making her into someone with family, hopes and fears.

He glanced at Dean, who’d begun pacing, was greeted with hooded eyes and Dean’s best game face.

“What _sex_ is Doctor Turner? That would help narrow it down.” He asked, hoping to stop the flow of… _Kelly_.

“No… I… Kelly didn’t attach a sex to her thoughts about the doctor… but Doctor Turner and Westview Medical Clinic, _isn’t that enough?”_

“ _Your_ country might be a postage stamp, with a few dozen doctors…” Dean grated “…Here, outside the frickin’ _Shire_ it’s… just not okay! That info, Sammy’s narrowed it down to five Medical practices _in four different states_. If _and it’s a big if,_ the records he dug up are accurate an’ up to date. Can you at least give us a timeline?”

“How long, no. Time of day, possibly lateish afternoon from the shadows… But Dean seemed to know exactly when she’d be there.

So, you’ll find her.” Michele seemed certain, almost numb now.

“…He walked alongside her, grabbed her arm, told her to keep walking, marched her to the car like a bodyguard and drove off with her before she could even make a fuss. It was so smooth it seemed almost choreographed.”

“What can I say, I know how-to pick-up Chicks.” Dean smirked.

Michele’s jaw hardened. “She was terrified! So, excuse me if I’m not wowed by your skills with women. You’re a _very_ scary man.”

“No, I’m not, I’m adorable.” Dean disagreed giving her a hundred-watt smile.

Sam kicked back in his chair and watched them squabble.

“No, you’re not. I’m adorable - when I work at it, adorable implies little and cute. You, Dean Winchester, are neither.”

“Am too, cute!” 

“Na uh, you’re beautiful.”

“‘m not frickin beautiful.”

Sam smirked to himself. Dean was bipolar about his looks. He’d use them and flaunt them when it suited him, other times he’d seemed to hate or be ashamed of them.   
But _any_ feminine descriptor really got his back up.  
It came from growing up in a series of crap motel rooms and seedy bars where the dregs of society gathered. Dean’s too plush lips, almost girly lashes and sculpted cheekbones marked him out as prey in the eyes of the kind of monster that wasn’t in any lore book.

To compensate, Dean puffed himself up to twice his size and put on a thick layer of hyper masculinity.

“Are too,” Michele stated with that defiant little lift of her chin “... like a wolf or a tiger or even a shark’s beautiful. You _both_ are. Beautiful the way most top-of-the-food-chain predators are.”

Sam felt a weird moment of surprise. She had meant it, had included him in her assessment, as if it were obvious. He’d spent his life being called a freak by school yard bullies, mocked by his brother over his hair (which, along with his eyes, were his only features people had ever seriously mentioned in a positive light,) or being dismissed because he didn’t measure up to his big brother. He’d gone from being small and weedy, to too tall and gangly. People called him ‘the smart one’ for a reason.

Dean seemed nonplussed and uncertain if she was hitting on him, mocking him… or narrating a wildlife documentary, “Yeah well, you got a freckle on the end of your nose.”

Which was a typically middle school comeback, but still made her scrub at her nose muttering, “At least I _have_ freckles, and no one thinks _I’m_ blonde,” which Sam suspected was a dig about Fanfiction. (Weirdly a lot of writers thought Dean was blonde, with freckles and bright green eyes.)

“So, I’ll try hacking the records of the Westview Medical Centres, look for women Kelly’s age that are 4 or so months pregnant. With a Doctor Turner listed as attending…” Sam suggested, before the two of them got onto topics he wanted left alone.

“No, that can’t be right.” All Michele’s levity fled, and she looked like she’d been reminded of something highly unpleasant “Kelly’s at least 6 or 7 months pregnant, isn’t she?” She made an arch with her hand to demonstrate.

“No… but…” Sam’s stomach lurched, “there’s lore that indicate Nephilim gestate quicker.”

“Great, just great, the time bomb’s got a fucking short fuse? Fan-freaking-tastic you got any other good news Cassandra?”

Michele looked sort of grey “No… not good news.”

“Somethin’ though.” Dean challenged.

“You don’t want to hear this.”

“Yeah we do.”

“Dean, I’ve told you everything I saw… Do I have to point out the rest? _Please don’t make me explain...”_

Silence stretched between them.

When she finally continued her voice was very quiet and weirdly colorless. “I lost a child before … before Johnny. I know what it feels like. Even if you don’t kill Kelly, she loves her son the way I loved Davie. Losing a child… it breaks you inside. Your Mum, I think she …” Michele stopped herself abruptly. 

“But that’s _not_ … It’s about _medical logistics_ … how are you going to…?” She faltered again, couldn’t bring herself to say it. “Kelly appears to be the equivalent of third trimester. That’s _not_ a quick trip to an abortion clinic anymore… it’s not even legal after 20 weeks, here… I know America’s different. But she’s not going to _consent_ to you killing her child or go meekly to some medical facility. It’s a major medical procedure now, Sam… _even if it’s legal._ You’re either talking surgery or killing it then inducing her, she’d still have to basically give birth to her child’s dead body. And now, you’re saying there’s not much time…”

Michele laid things out like she’d obviously thought through and agonized over it all before she’d contacted them.

She was right.

They didn’t want to hear it.


	71. Best Laid Plans

** The Thing You Hate **

****

**Chapter 71: Best laid plans**

****

Dean paced as he listened to Cas’s stupid answer message for the third time that day.

They hadn’t heard from him in way too long. He was starting to worry.

But that was beside the point. Right now, Cas needed to quit chasing whatever half-baked National inquirer lead he was following and get his defeathered ass back to the bunker.

Eileen would have the other half of the info they needed. At some point soon, he’d go grab Kelly from outside that medical clinic.

Then they’d need to hide Rosemary and her short fused timebomb while they worked on how to get that thing out of her. It would be a butt load easier with Cas to chicken scratch up her ribs so no one, including Kelly’s friend, Dagon, the Prince of Hell, most well known for her psychotic savagery could find them…

“Come on, Cas. I've called you three times now.” He cleared his throat and stopped himself from spilling out everything that was buzzing through his head. “Will you call me back? We've got a line on Dagon. We need your help.”

Hanging up he wandered back to the war room where Sam and Eileen sat at the map table drinking beer.

“So you ran the plates of every car that drove past that warehouse in Idaho just before it burned down?” Sam clarified.

“Yeah. Most of them were local, but one wasn't. It came up registered to Dermott Culp.” The brunette hunter answered in that throaty uninflected voice that marked her out as deaf.

“So...?”

“So, he went missing a year ago.”

“Okay.” Dean crossed his arms and watched the byplay between his brother and Eileen feeling irritated with himself _and Mitch_ for it, now she had him searching for any sign of sparks between the pair. It was _damn_ irritating.

“I tracked his car to Iowa. Found him coming out of a building carrying a dead body.” Eileen continued drawing out the tale (maybe, to show off to Sam?) 

“So, Dermott's a killer?” Dean queried.

Eileen tilted her head, “Dermott's a _demon_.” She said it like it was obvious.

“Uh, one of Crowley's?” Sam asked, showing he was clueless too. They weren’t as smart as Eileen gave them credit for.

“Works for Dagon. Covers her tracks.”

__

_Now_ it made sense.

Sam raised his eyebrows in surprise, “Smart.”

Dean felt a surge of irritation with his brother, he’d get a lot further with the woman if he complemented _her_ rather than the bad guys.

“Dude, don't compliment the bad guys.”

Eileen laughed softly a flirty smile curving her lips as she looked at Sam, he smiled back.

“Uh... So, do you know where Kelly is now?” Sam asked hesitantly.

“No. But before Dermott got stabbed in the heart...” Eileen smirked.

“Nice.” Dean couldn’t help the complement, and hoped little brother would see how it was done. It was so damn nice to be working with a hunter that just got on and took care of business after Miss Right-to-life, bleeding heart, hobbit’s endless angsting.

“Mm-hmm.” Eileen received his complement with a smile “He _gave_ me her phone number.” She continued with another smile, from the edge to it, Dean was sure the giving involved some fairly creative angel blade application.   
Wondered briefly whether Sam’s pet would be _quite so_ starry eyed about matchmaking Sam and sending Claire off with the woman if she knew. Demons were people too in Mitches book.

Eileen tilted her head coyly and smiled up at them both, retrieved a piece of paper from her pocket and slid it across the table to Sam.

“Yeah, nice.” Sam agreed echoing her smile back, clinked his bottle with hers in a toast and took another mouthful of beer.

( _and hallelujah the boy could be taught!)_

“The dead body?”

“A Doctor Michael Turner.”

Dean felt a small jolt, why he wasn’t sure, he knew it was coming.

“Of Westview Medical Centre,” Sam finished, earned a questioning frown from Eileen.

“Ho-w…?”

“We have a…” Sam paused and ducked his head, looking at a loss on how to describe Mitch.

“Psychic.” Dean finished for him. “The woman told us Kelly would have an appointment with a Doctor Turner at Westview Medical Centre… problem was that narrowed it down to…”

“Five Westview’s in four different States…”

“Which was useless.” Dean continued sourly, Sam frowned at him, looked for a second like he was going to argue or defend Mitch, then didn’t.

“But... Doctor Turner, he’s dead...!?” Eileen frowned at them both.

Sam held up the piece of paper with the phone number on it, and grinned ferally, “ _Kelly_ doesn’t know that.”

And there it was, one self-fulfilling prophecy. They’d ring Kelly, make an appointment, and she’d come.   
They just needed to iron out the details.

“We’re gonna need the Colt, the Michael lance’s gone, the Colt’s the only thing we know that’ll kill a Prince of Hell, for sure.”

“Yeah, I’ll call Mick.”

…ooo0ooo…

It turned out, the reason why Dean had been alone snatching Kelly in Michele’s vision was because timing required them to be two places at once. They needed to move quick, before Doctor Turner’s murder became public.

So, while Eileen and he were standing in a scrap yard beside the Mississippi, waiting to meet Mick and the Colt. Dean was two hours’ drive away approaching the Iowa suburb that held Westview Medical Centre.

Sam checked his watch again, stood from where he’d been leaning against Eileen’s cherry red Chevy and breathed a deep sigh. 

They’d agreed on giving Kelly only a couple of hours between the call and the meeting.   
Michele said she was worried about the baby; urgent appointments did that.

Sam dialled the number, still wondering if it could possibly be _this_ easy. They didn’t get easy often.

The phone picked up.

“Ms. Kline?” Sam asked in a British accent, (he’d noticed the way people responded to Mick’s accent, and he didn’t want to risk Kelly recognising him.)

“Yes?” Kelly responded cagily.

“This is Oliver, in Dr. Turner's office. He'd like to see you in the office today.”

“I, uh, I was just in there. He said everything was fine.”

“All right, well. He looked back through your test results and there are some things he'd like to discuss. Does 5:00 pm work for you?”

“I-I-I don't think I can get away.”

“Well, he said it's _very_ important. 5:00 pm?” Sam pushed.

“Um... sure.” 

Sam raised his fist in triumph. “Good, see you then.” He cut the call, turned and gave Eileen the thumbs up.

**“** Cool.” She enthused with a cute little victory wiggle which made him grin at her.

She beamed back.

The sound of a car drew his attention, he turned to face the noise.

Eileen was quick on the uptake, followed his gaze.

That better be Mick with the Colt.

The car which pulled up held two people. Mick Davies and taller pasty looking man.

“I thought you'd be coming alone.” Sam greeted, scrutinizing the two men as they approached.

“Well, I thought we'd gotten past our trust issues.” Mick replied. “Look, if Dagon shows, we're gonna need all the help we can get.” He nodded towards the blonde guy. “This is Renny Rawlings. New man.” There was something in Mick’s body language that told him Mick wasn’t comfortable with the ‘new man.’

“Right. I'm Sam. This is Eileen, Leahy.” He nodded to Eileen.

“Ah, the banshee girl.” Renny said condescendingly.

Eileen tilted his head questioningly. 

“We have a file.” Renny added, smugly. “From what Mick tells me, neither of you have any formal training.

Fascinating.

I was top of my class at Kendricks...” Renny, who Sam was quickly beginning to think of as a pompous ass, adjusted his tie self-importantly.

“No one cares.” Eileen cut him off dismissively, and it was all Sam could do, not to laugh.

Mick looked pained.  
“I, uh, brought the Colt, just like you asked.” He held it out to Sam. “But it's gotta go back to HQ.” He warned.

“Gee, Mick, I thought we'd gotten past the trust issues.” Sam jibed good naturedly dropping his eyes to examined the gun.

Mick responded with a ghost of a smile.

…ooo0ooo…

Dean looked back at Kelly in the rear-view mirror as he drove.

She’d quit clawing at the doors trying to get out. (Baby’s doors were kiddie locked for the first time since... maybe, Sammy was out of diapers. It wasn’t an entirely pleasant irony.)   
Kelly sat there, half curled up round her devil baby bump, silent.

_(‘_ _She was terrified! So, excuse me if I'm not wowed by your skills with women. You're a_ very _scary man.’)_

Mitch’s voice echoed in his head, as Kelly looked up flinchingly, and met his eyes in the mirror.

“How did you find me?” There was a faint tremble in her voice.

“Dagon’s hench demon killed your paediatrician. Your gal pal’s got a clean-up crew, did you know?   
A hunter pal of ours ran into him when he was dumpin’ the docs body.   
Got your number… with a bit of persuasion.

A goody-two-shoes hobbit and one game of phone tag. And here we are.”

“What are you going to do to me?”

That was a good question…

“First thing, we get you away from Dagon, she’s a _demon_ Kelly.” 

“Yeah, _I know_. So’s your friend, The King of Hell.”

Dean was stung, “Crowley’s not our friend! Dagon’s not yours either. Demons, they’ve always got an angle Kell’… ”

Kelly glared at him but didn’t say another word. She’d changed from the hysterical mess of a woman they’d last seen; there was something slightly feral in her eyes now. Dean wondered if it was just having her eyes opened to the world as it was, becoming a Mom, or if it was due to _what_ she was going to be a Mom to.

…..

Dean pulled the Impala into the scrap yard.

It was dark now, but Dean could pick out Eileen’s red Chevy and four people waiting.

Mick, Eileen, Sam.... Where Cas _should_ be standing, there was some blonde dude in a tie.

Micks date no doubt. Another limey asshat that thought more of himself than he merited. Unless that blonde boyband hair was concealing a brain that knew how to ward against Princes of Hell he was just another liability, _Great_.

He killed the Impala’s engine and swung out. “This everyone?”

“Yeah... Still no word from Cas.” Sam squashed his last hope Cas was lurking somewhere out of sight.

“Right. Great.” He walked round behind his Baby to get to Kelly. “Who's this?” He gestured at the dude in the tie.

“He's with Mick.” Sam told him shortly, Dean noted Sam didn’t bother with the dude’s name.

“I'm Renny Rawlings. Graduated Kendricks, top of my...” Yeah, Sam didn’t give him a name cos he was an arrogant dick.

“Right. I don't care.” He cut the man off before he could begin some puffed up British man of Letters monologue, and caught Eileen’s smirk. Apparently, she wasn’t impressed either.

He opened the door for Kelly, and offered her his hand. “Come on.”

“Don't.” She knocked it away like he was some handsy jerk trying to cop a feel.

Raising his hands, he backed off a little, “Okay—“  
He let her lever herself out without help.

Shut the door behind her.

“Kelly... Listen, we... we all know you're in a really... difficult situation, and we... we just... We wanna help.” Sam began, forehead creased, eyes earnest, hands lifted in supplication.

“You call this helping?” Kelly asked, her hands cradling her stomach protectively.

Sam gulped, almost cringed.

He was probably thinking of Mitch’s face, and her voice as she spoke about _her_ dead kid. _God,_ Dean hated that woman right now, as if this wasn’t hard enough….

“Look, Kelly, that kid, it's... I mean, it can't... I mean, it's _Lucifer's_ …” Dean stumbled helplessly, hardly able to look at her.

_“_ Yeah _, I know.”_  
  
“You think I wanted this to happen?” She addressed that to Sam.

“He _used_ me.” Kelly looked down, running her hands over her stomach, closed her eyes with a grimace of love and pain which etched itself deep on her face. “But I _love_ this child!” It was a vow, as she cradled her son. 

And what could he say? What could _they_ say? … Nothing.

“You will mean absolutely nothing to that child.” Mick Davies cut in. “That _child_ **_will kill us all.”_**

“Hey!” Dean hadn’t mean to speak, but it was too harsh, Mick didn’t need to be a dick about it.

“That's... that's not happening, okay,” Sam stuttered. “We're... we're gonna figure something out. We will. We...”

“This is absurd.” Renny flared suddenly, reached for his weapon.

“Don't!” Dean warned, stepping between the douche-bag and Kelly, reaching for his own gun.

Suddenly, the wind picked up, as if a storm was approaching...

Kelly winced. “She's here,” she warned.

They drew their guns, circling Kelly. Sam with the Colt, trying to prepare for a Prince of Hell.

Everyone scanned their surroundings anxiously, searching for the enemy, as the wind grew stronger and lightning flashed.

Dean had just enough time to think Dagon _Princess_ of Hell liked to make an entrance, before…

“Hey!”

Dagon materialized behind Sam, swept her hands up and apart, sent everyone but Kelly flying. 

As he hit the pavement _hard_ and tumbled behind the impala Dean was aware of Sam; who’d been slammed hardest, impacting a metal shed four feet above the ground.

The Colt tumbling out of his grasp.

Dean scrambled to his feet raised his gun and began firing, was distantly aware of Mick doing the same on the other side of the impala.   
Dagon stalked forward un-phased by the bullets slamming into her.   
She made a slicing gesture with both hands and Dean found himself picked up and tossed aside again. Smashed against the wheels of some giant machine, like he was nothing. A mere gnat buzzing in Dagon’s ears as she made her way towards Kelly.

Dagon grabbed her prize and Dean caught one despairing look from Kelly as she went limp, was dragged behind the demon like a misbehaving child.

There was a retort and a flash.

Dean realised Eileen had somehow gotten the Colt.

Taken a shot….

just as Dagon and Kelly disappeared…

The bullet continued on, as if in slow motion…

Ended its travels by ploughing into Renny Rawlings chest, accompanied by an unfairly insignificant thwack.

A look of shocked incomprehension lit the man’s eyes…

His gun arm dropping to his side…

He slumped to his knees as blood dribbled, shocking red and fatal from the corner of his mouth.

Then, he collapsed.

Dean swung disbelieving eyes back to Eileen, just in time to catch the tail end of her horrified expression as she realised what she’d done.

Then Mick scrambled to his feet, staggered to his fallen colleague and crouched beside him.

The look on Mick’s face confirmed everything.

Meanwhile, the Winchester brothers found their feet, Sam walked towards Eileen where she stood frozen in horror.

Dean approached the Man of Letters.

Suddenly Eileen’s paralysis broke. She faltered towards Mick on rubbery legs, arms spread wide, the Colt dangling from her hand like dead weight.

“I didn't... I didn't mean to. I was shooting at the demon. I'm –“ She pleaded with the man to understand.

Sam grabbed her shoulder turned her towards him, so she could read his lips “No, no, wait up. It was an accident.” He signed the word for emphasis. “It's all right.” He soothed.

Suddenly Mick pulled his gun, stepped towards Eileen. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. What are you doing?”

“Hey!” The brothers both lurched towards the man of Letters, who’d clearly lost his mind.

Mick took another step, teeth gritted like he was in pain, raised his gun “She killed a Man of Letters. S-she has to die.” He gasped.

“It was an accident!” Sam barked incredulously.

“It doesn't matter!... The Code.” Micks face crumpled.

“No! Hey! _Screw_ the Code.” Dean gestured at Mick.

“Don't make this harder than it already is.” he practically begged them to understand, as his gun wavered.

“Mick, you don't have to do this.” Dean raised his gun on the man, hoping the threat would make him stand down.

“Yes, I do!” Mick wailed.

“Please. Don't.” Eileen begged quietly, doe eyes staring at Mick beseechingly.

Mick closed his eyes, looked like he might puke or faint.

“Mick, Mick, listen to me.” Sam begged, walking forward “Mick, look, I-I know you guys h-have this Men of Letters code, you blindly answer to, but... look, you don't have to do that, Mick.” Sam placed himself between Eileen and Mick, reached his brothers side with another step, without breaking eye contact with Mick he reached out, lowered Dean’s gun.

“You're better than that.” He continued  
“You only have to answer to yourself.  
You only have to do what you know is right.  
You only have to answer to your own code.”

Mick was panting like he’d run a marathon, like he was seeing a horror show in his head.

Slowly Mick lowered his gun, looking down, his face twitching in distress. The man was sweating and shaking.

“Just go.” He grated.

They fled.


	72. Fish Cut bait or Go Home

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 72: Fish, Cut bait, or Go Home**

The troop from the garage was silent, just like the three-hour journey back to the bunker.

Belatedly it occurred to Dean, as he watched Eileen walk down the stairs in front of him, that he should have sent Sammy with her in that lipstick red Chevy of hers.   
That maybe Eileen needed some sort of Chick flick moment, to talk or hug it out … or... something, after the almighty clusterfuck with Kelly, Dagon… and not to forget, the dead Man of Letters she accidentally shot, (the one whose name Dean can’t even remember right now,) and Mick’s weird melt down.

The dude had been like some sorta Treadstone reject. The whole, ‘must follow _the code_ ’ thing, like he’d been programmed; don’t pass go, and check your brain at the door, thing... it had been 50 shades of messed up.

They’d all been on auto pilot after Dagon had disappeared with Kelly, and after Mick’s meltdown.   
Sammy had ended up riding shotgun and they’d followed Eileen’s taillights back.

Now, watching Eileen come to a stop just inside the war room, like a windup toy who’s clockwork has run down, Dean realized he had probably messed up again.

Eileen stared into space and wiped at her eyes like she’d been crying.

“You okay?” He asked, then immediately regretted the impulse.

Eileen looked at him, eyes shiny and nodded her head, ‘yes,’ for a moment Dean thought he’d dodged a bullet … but then she shook her head, and tears welled.

“ _No_ …” she keened. “He wasn't a monster.

He was...

I...”

Dean cringed internally, tossing a helpless look at Sam. Out of his depth.

Sam did what he always did in these situations, _(Thank god!)_ Reached out one of his big Sasquatch hands, and clasped her shoulder.  


“Hey...” he turned Eileen to face him, shook his head mournfully. “It was a _mistake_.” Sam said the words fervently, signing for emphasis as he looked down at her.

Eileen stepped forward and all but threw herself against Sam’s chest.

Dean watched his little brother draw her closer, hunch a little and wrap himself round her, giant hands stroking through her dark hair in that surprisingly gentle way he had.

Sammy closed his eyes, resting his chin on top of her head murmuring soft reassurances as she began to sob in earnest.

It made Dean feel like the worst sort of voyeur, just standing there watching them.

…ooo0ooo…

Dean paced the confines of his room.

He had fled, ran out and left Sammy to deal with Eileen.

Now he felt trapped in here, and too wired to sleep.

Rubbing the back of his neck he picked up one of the beers he snagged from the kitchen during his tactical retreat, twisting it’s cap off. Downed half the bottle in a couple of pulls, shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair.

Prowled the perimeter of his space again, before toeing off his boots, and dug his keys wallet and phone out of his pockets and dropped them on the nightstand.

Slid his gun under the pillow.

Flopped face down on the bed with a groan, felt the mattress give and mold to his body.

Stretched, flexed and arched his spine, taking stock of the day’s damage.

It was barely anything by Winchester standards.   
Bruises across one shoulder and hip, impact grazes on his elbows and a few wrenched muscles.

He considered taking a shower, weighed the benefits of hot water, now, against the risk of running into Eileen and becoming her shoulder to cry on… It wasn’t that he didn’t like her, sympathize or anything.

She was actually pretty cool.   
It was just… he’d probably say or do something that made things worse.

Sammy was _just_ _better_ talking down upset women, doing the feelings and reassurances crap.

Dean smirked to himself, while _his_ skill set… tended more towards taking women’s minds right off things, rocking their world between the sheets... (above the sheets… on the sofa... against the wall… or in the shower...)

Sammy’s skill set was more appropriate here.

Besides, Mitch would probably approve of him giving them alone time.

Mitch… _that_ was about the only silver lining to losing Kelly again, not having to face those stupid eyes of hers, being all sad and accusing, while she tried to be _nice_ and not call him a baby killer...

Reaching out he snagged his phone.   
Saw she was on line, hesitated a moment wondering what to say, finished his beer, opened another and put in a call.

“Hey trouble.” Such a bright breezy greeting, it knocked him off balance.

“Hey Mitch… uhh how’s things?”

“All quiet on the western front and nothing exciting happens here, surprised you didn’t know that.” She gave a light laugh, “though I did manage to lure Wingdiego down the slide at the duck pond.”

_“You lured a wendigo down a slide at a duck pond?!”_

Yeah, Sam’s pet had finally blown a fuse.

“Noooo!” She snorted amused “I get how you would … But no **_Wing_** _-diego_ is a _duck_ …. A very manky looking duck, with a deformed wing that looks sorta like a clawed hand poking out... and one blind eye. I’ve got a photo somewhere…took it when I was modelling the ducks out of fondant for Chris’ second birthday cake. It was a duck pond cake, obviously.”

The whole conversation was … a bit like expecting to crash into a reinforced concrete wall at a hundred miles an hour, and instead, being tumbled lightly into a wall made of entirely of marshmallow and sprinkles.

“Let me get this straight you got a _duck_ to go down a slide.”

“Umm yeah...” She suddenly sounded embarrassed, “pretty daft huh? But Chris… he said both ‘duck’ and ‘slide’ …and for _him_ that’s practically a dissertation, we got Slinky, the cat, _our_ cat, she was named after the book, before we got her…to go down the one at home the other day… so well... uhm one thing kinda led to another...”

“You’re one weird chick Mitch.”

“Says the guy who hunts _monsters_!” He heard her shake her head.

“I’m awesome.”

“So you’re always saying hon, so you’re always saying. _And I believe you_ … it’s a pity _you don’t_.” What was he supposed to say? He sat up, snagged his beer and took another slug.

“Where’s Sam?” She asked, she always asked. Actually he was _surprised_ she’d lasted this long.

He took another mouthful of beer. “With Eileen.”

“ _Oh!_.” There was a smile in her voice now “...so, you’ve made yourself scarce? You’re a good brother, Dean.” There really was something about her voice that wrapped itself round you, made you feel warm. Or… he tilted the bottle and found it empty, maybe it was just the beer.

“So that’s what you did today? Trained stunt ducks?”

“Had my blood counts done. Picked blackberries down by the river. Made blackberry and chocolate chip muffins out of them, with the ‘help’ of my beautiful assistant… Did a load of boring chores, wrote some drivel… Now I’m at school, watching Johnny and Chris stomp around in a _huge_ pile of oak leaves searching for acorns. _And_ talking to you, of course. How ‘bout you guys?”

“Well you know…” he licked his lips, twisted the cap off another beer before plunging into it, trying to match her tone, “Took a drive, abducted Kelly from a medical center, got our asses handed to us by Dagon. Lost Kelly… But hey! **_I_** didn’t shoot anyone. Unless you count Dagon, an’ she just shrugged it off... so yeah, there ya go.”

Mitch was silent for a while.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

He cleared his throat “Sorta figured you’d already know.”

“Apparently not, maybe because I don’t need to know?   
Maybe cos _you_ need to tell me?  
… But... only if you want.” Her voice was soft and intimate in his ear   
“Whatever you need... okay?”

“Well…” He drawled, voice heavy with innuendo to break the tension.

She laughed. “Oh no no no! I’m sure we’ve had this conversation. Seriously, does _that_ ever work?”

“You’d be surprised darlin’”

“Not really… I know of a whole fandom of women, most of whom would pay good money for the experience.”

“But not you.” He grimaced, and took a fresh mouthful of beer.

“Yup, as you said, I’m one weird chick.   
Quit deflecting Winchester.   
If it would help, and you weren’t _on the other side of the planet…  
_I’d get you a glass of milk and some home baking to help the process. Our milk comes in a plastic bottles, though, so no Daisy the cow or lesbian milk maids.”

“What?!” He didn’t quite grasp what she was talking about. But, he could tell it was part of her skin crawly psychic shit.

“Sam was thinking about your milk preferences, in “Blood, milk and whiskey.” ‘ _Dean's head is a weird place that can hold both childhood whimsy and porn in close proximity without exploding.’_ I sorta loved that line, the words Sam has in his head sometimes, they’re … poetic.”

Yeah creepy.

“Fuck, I’m not drunk enough for this!”

“You and me both sweetheart.   
But here we are.” He could imagine the sardonic sideways pull to her lips as she said it.

“Dean… “ He closed his eyes against the warm weight of the way she said his name, “Fish. Cut bait. Or go home.”

“Yeah, Yeah. Okay...”

He told her everything.

…ooo0ooo…

They ended up in the room Eileen had been using, sitting on the bed because there wasn’t any other furniture. Eileen still clinging to him, half draped across his lap as he stroked her hair and made soft hushing sounds.

Thankfully, her tears had trailed off a while ago, his jacket, shirt and undershirt were damp with them, moist against his skin.

Her storm of tears left her quiet in his arms, now and he hoped she’d fall asleep soon, she had to be exhausted, they all were.

His thoughts flicked briefly to Dean, hoping he hadn’t headed straight back out to find a bar and drown today’s failure.

Shifting slightly, he breathed deeply against Eileen’s hair, feeling the soft strands brush his lips, the sweetness of her rose shampoo filling his nostrils.

It had been a long time since he’d held anyone like this, held a woman.   
Taking another, rose scented breath against her hair, he settled his arms around her more comfortably, and allowed himself to simply enjoy the sensation. Soaking in her warmth, and her soft curves pressed against him.

_God he’s missed this!_

He felt his body stir and begin to respond to the thoughts and her closeness.

_Yeah… definitely, it’s been too long!_

He shifted, and tried to gently detangle from her, and get some space.

Her hands tightened their grip, slid over his undershirt and found skin.

Then, she surged up, her mouth meeting his.

Hot, wet and salty with tears.   
Her hands swept beneath his shirt, sliding up over his bruised ribs, to send shocks of electricity flaring up his spine.

With a stuttered gasp that caught achingly behind his teeth, he found himself kissing her back.

_And, oh god!_

If he’d missed having a woman in his arms… This, this … _how had he not died without this?!_

Sam groaned, heat licking through his blood, as he cradled her face in his hands. His fingers knotted into her thick hair.

Lost himself in the sensation.

The play of teeth, lips and tongue, the surging blood and hands sliding over hot pliant skin.

Until they broke apart for air, and he looked down.

And felt a confused stab of disappointment realizing the brown eyes staring up at him, and the face of the woman in his arms were not... what he longed for.

Dean, Dean would tell him he couldn’t have who and what he wanted.

Jess was gone, so many years gone. Montauk had been a confusing nightmare, one that raised old ghosts…

Dean would say he should get back on the horse, take what he could get, while it was on offer.

Get satisfaction with the other consenting adult in the room.

To just let go, and go with the flow.

Eileen reached out her hand, traced her fingers over his cheekbone and gave him a heated smile, twined her fingers in his hair, and tugged, drawing his mouth down to meet hers again.

He closed his eyes.

She bit at his lower lip, slid her tongue against his; the sensation in his chest threatened to drown him as he tried to swallow back another sound, one that sounded far too much like desperation.

When he opened his eyes again, Eileen was shrugging off her shirt. The creamy expanse of her exposed skin pale contrasted against the black lace cups of her bra.

She looked up at him with wide eyes, giving him another heated smile, and raised her head _with a defiant little tilt of her chin… that reminded him crashingly of Michele._

The thought of Michele was like being hit by a wave of ice water.

No! He couldn’t do this, _what if Michele saw it_ , all of it?

What if she was here? What if she was seeing this through Eileen’s eyes, or his.

He shuddered, and flames licked hot-cold at his guts with the thought.

For a sliver of a second, one hot wild moment, he wanted to lunge forward and simply _devour_ the woman in front of him regardless, or maybe _because of that._

A hunger to take what he was allowed and damn everything else.

What held him back was a feather in an avalanche.

Osiris feather, the weight of a million small moments.

All the times Michele had smiled at him and told him he was a Good Man, **_believed it_** with all that weird, bottomless faith she splashed around.

Eileen reached out to him and he caught her hands, shaking his head.

“Eileen…. I can’t …. It wouldn’t be right. I’m … I’m sorry.”

…ooo0ooo…

He told her everything.   
There was a weird sort of relief, telling someone how it had gone, arranging it and putting it out there. Having her react and sympathise, tell him he’d done what he could, and that it was okay, (or would be somehow.)   
It made something inside loosen in his chest.

– Or maybe… (Dean set down another empty bottle.) Maybe it was the beer. Yeah, probably the beer… _Definitely_ the beer.

Then suddenly, Michele gave a strangled yip of pain and there was a dull clatter that sounded like she’d dropped her phone.

In the background he could still hear the sounds of playing children, their screams and whoops, and heedless laughter.

But Mitch didn’t answer any of his (increasingly alarmed) pleas or demands for proof of life.

For forty-two long seconds.

Before he heard a strangled whimper and the words

“Ohhh Sam… you idiot.” Loud, clear, and plaintive as a cat caught in a downpour.

There was the sound of the phone being retrieved. “Dean? Hey! You still there?”

“Yeah, what’d ya see?”

There was a deep sigh. “Dean darling, this time... this time it’s none of your business…

None of mine either….   
Now… I’ve gotta go okay? … I need to clean up, and get my boys home, before some overly helpful PTA Mum notices and calls an ambulance on me or something.

_Oh, and Dean_. It’s not 911 here; In New Zealand you call 111 for the ambulance.

I love ya okay? Try and get some sleep. Tomorrow’s another day.”


	73. Human

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 73: Human**

**_“_ ** _Can we talk, please?”_

There aren’t many sentences that set a man’s alarm bells ringing faster; so no, not the best opening.

Sighing in frustration Michele continues peeling carrots while chewing over what to say or do, she might have told Dean it was none of her business, but she _feels_ responsible. 

She chops broccoli, mushrooms and capsicums to go with the carrots in that night’s stir fry and ponders.

Reaching over she cues some music from her phone. Sings along with Rag ‘n’ Bone Man’s “Human,” putting real sass into the lyrics.

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L3wKzyIN1yk>

_“I'm only human_  
_I make mistakes_  
 _I'm only human_  
 _That's all it takes_  
 _To put the blame on me_  
 _Don't put the blame on me_

_I'm no prophet or Messiah_  
_Should go looking somewhere higher_  
 _I'm only human after all_  
 _I'm only human after all_  
 _Don't put the blame on me_  
 _Don't put the blame on me.”_

Michele realises she’s feeling more than a bit frustrated with the situation, so very tired of being the responsible adult in every aspect of her life.

She doesn’t want to have an awkward conversation with Sam about his sex life, and her affect there on.

Thinking about it makes her tummy feel tied in knots and full of panic, like when she has to confront or argue with an authority figure on her son’s behalf.

Everything’s upside down, her first serious parental type sex talk was supposed be along the lines of, “True love waits,” involving a heart warming moment with one of her daughters, (or more probably a bit of eye rolling and a few huffy, “I know Mum’s.”)

That’s not what Sam needs.  
Sam _had_ true love and it was taken from him; the thought makes her unbelievably sad after writing out her own husband’s thoughts and fears about the possibility of her death, just that morning.

Sam’s heart is a Chernobyl blast zone, her stupid judgmental comments about Dean’s Tom catting ways and her psychic presence have made things worse for him.

He needs to know… that she’d never begrudge him, her sweet selfless friend, of what he could have shared with Eileen. Wouldn’t have judged him for what it was, or wasn’t.

Even if she had to witness it. She could set it aside.

Surely, mutual gratification between two consenting adults was better than the violence and blood she’d witnessed with the Winchesters already.

Less traumatic than the events in Montauk; (the way every time she came across a cable-tie in her husband’s work shirt pocket she is accosted by flashbacks of Dean’s bloody chewed up wrists, blank eyes and corpse pale face.

Or the night her husband had half jokingly suggested she tie him to the bed, how she had panicked and fled, locked herself in the bathroom, had a minor panic attack and lost her dinner.) She’d met them in Montauk and her mind will never be spotless again, but that was life.

The noise of metal dragging over concrete as the front gate opens, the creak and slam of the mailbox hinges. Then, galloping thunder of a matched set of running footsteps.

The front door slammed open like a stampede has hit the house.

“We’re home!”

“Hi Mum.”

A package landed on the bench beside her and two handfuls of carrot sticks disappear as the squall of soccer uniform clad twins squabble past her, on their way to dispute who got first shower.

“Any idea what Dad ordered this time?” Michele asked the world at large, but none of her progeny were bothered by such mundane questions.  
She examined the package.

An overseas delivery… addressed to a “Mitch Chadwick,” at her address.

It took her longer than it ought for her brain to put the country of origin, America, and the name the package is addressed to, together.

To realise that it wasn’t a mistake and the package was meant for _her_.

There’s only one person that calls her Mitch and he’s in America. She doesn’t know what Dean Winchester could possibly want or need to send her.  
She hesitates before opening the package.

It makes things feel _more real_ somehow, holding something tangible from a world that could have been, until now, simply a figment of her unbalanced mind.

…..

The contents of the package aren’t what she’d expected, (not that she expected anything.)

Four boxes labelled anQuil 7.5 containing foil strips of tablets. A four-month supply according to the one tablet a day with or without food, schedule on the box.

A copy of the prescription for the medication, in the name of Mitch Chadwick.

And a small metal charm the size of her thumbnail, which she identifies as an anti possession sigil.

Nothing is handwritten, there’s no senders address, no note, no explanation. Nothing.

If it weren’t for the antipossession charm and _Mitch_ _Chadwick_ , she’d sure it was just a mix up.

But that’s Dean Winchester, communication isn’t his strongest suit.  
For whatever reason, Dean thinks she needs AnQuil so he sent it to her, _(‘_ _If ya bring home a dog I'll make sure it gets its shots and buy it kibble too.’)_ Looks like Dean’s sent her an accessory for her collar and something he thinks will keep her coat shiny.

Simply trusts her to be smart enough or good enough at taking orders to take the tablets as directed.

She feels let down, and out of sorts with the obtuse impersonal nature of the exchange.

But really, what did she expect? a singing telegram and a bunch of flowers?

Popping one innocuous tablet out of its foil she places it on the work surface next to a mug, spoons in instant coffee and sugar, then sets the kettle to boil.  
Turns on the element under a frypan and splashed in some olive oil, letting it heat while she types the medications name into a Google search.

…ooo0ooo…

Dean wandered into the library next morning to finding Sam already up and enthroned at his laptop, coffee by his elbow.

“Mornin'.”

“Mornin'.” Sam doesn’t look up, he’s still frowning at the screen. “Hey, you, uh, you hear anything from Cas yet?”

Dean rubs the back of his neck “Mm. No. Still MIA.”

Sam frowns and shakes his head “You think he's all right?” he asks looking as worried as Dean’s starting to feel.

Dean stares into space for a moment “I don't know.” Looks around “Where's Eileen?”

“She took off. Uh, said she's heading back to Ireland for a while. Just needs some time, I guess.” Sam bites his lip and looks vaguely guilty. But really, the British dude’s death was dumb luck. Accidents happen in their line of work, it’s a fact of life. 

That said, it sucks.

“Mm. Yeah, I get that.”

They sip their coffee contemplatively.

“Mm.” Sam holds up a hand as if he remembered something, reaches for a moccasin wrapped bundle beside him and hands it over to his brother.

Dean opens it to reveal an old gun, the Colt. 

“Ah.” The elder hunter purrs examining the weapon, lifts the gun and sights down the barrel “Welcome back, sweetheart.”

…ooo0ooo…

“Mum! Hey Mum! The pans burning!”

Michele realises there’s smoke in the kitchen, belatedly stirred into action, she whisks the pan off the heat and jams the lid on before the oil catches flames. Blinks at her daughter.

“Mum, are you okay?”

Michele gathers her thoughts like a dazed wildebeest. “Yeah, umm… I…” her eyes track to the medication boxes on the countertop and her jaw hardens, she sweeps all the contents back into the courier box.

Her daughter peers at her concerned. “Mum go lay down, I can cook. Honest! You look … grey.”

“Oh umm…Thanks honey…. I just… Umm… use the other pan … don’t forget to put oil in or it’ll stick … brown the meat then add the sauce ….”

“Mum! I know how to cook stir-fry. Go lie down or I’m calling Dad.”

Michele makes her way numbly to her bedroom, drops the package into the bottom draw of her bedside cabinet and shuts the draw firmly.

AnQuil is an antipsychotic, one of the strongest on the market. Used to control, “disturbing, socially unacceptable, sexual behaviour caused by mental illness.”

Reading that, she been confused and stung, if that was Dean’s idea of a joke, **it is not funny!**

But it got worse.

AnQuil is a controlled drug (how it got through customs she doesn’t know) and that’s for a good reason. It’s associated with heart arhythmia, deep vein thrombosis, pulmonary embolism, strokes, heart, liver and kidney damage. It messes with blood pressure, increases destruction of red blood cells and has been implicated in more than a few patient deaths.

On a minor side note you’re not even supposed to drive while taking it.

In short, when added to her current medications and issues, her friend Dean has sent her an anti-possession charm and four boxes of potential death  
….and she’d blithely been about to down one with her coffee.


	74. Chemical Properties

Chapter 74: Chemical properties

**Chapter 74**

Sam found his brother in the man of Letters lab using his jury-rigged electrical arc furnace. (He’d constructed the thing out of the guts of an old microwave, the carbon rods out of a lantern battery, a few lengths of cable, some locking pliers and a fire brick one afternoon, with all the effortless genius he applied to everything mechanical.)

Right now, Dean was melting down small chunks of a blackened silver candlestick, to make a batch of silver rounds. Sam leaned against the door jamb watching his brother work, with a small measure of his old childhood envy.

Sipped thoughtfully from the tumbler of whiskey he’d brought with him.

Despite the clumsy protective gloves and face shield, every move Dean made was surprisingly measured and precise, there were plenty of other moments when Dean was a klutz, but there was no sign of that now, as he poured the glowing molten silver into each small well in the Petrobond mould, filling it exactly to the brim without overrunning a drop, faultlessly accurate.  
Comparatively, Sam knew he’d never manage the same level of control with the molten metal. Despite his best efforts in younger days he’d either over or under poured more than half of the plugs; eliciting irritation and scorn from his drill Sargent father, always hovered critically over his shoulder during the process.  
Now he didn’t even try, leaving that part of the job unquestioningly to Dean, despite how Dad had always harangued that he couldn’t do just that. 

Sam took another mouthful of whiskey and pushed old resentments irritably away, reminded himself that he and Dean had long ago found their own equilibrium, and that it worked.

Dean set the filled moulds aside to cool and stripped off his protective gear, ran a hand through sweat spiked hair, and turned to faced him, one eyebrow cocked questioningly.

“What’s wrong Sam?”

Sam took his time mulling over the question, uncertain how to answer. There wasn’t anything wrong exactly, he just felt weirdly fragile, and off balance after the conversation with Michele, couldn’t pin down why.

On one level it had been sort of laughable. Like he’d stepped into a particularly cheesy episode of full house or some other 80’s family sitcom and found himself in the midst of one of those tooth rotting heart to heart moments.

So, like the ones that he and Dean had always rolled their eyes at, tossed things at the screen during, or heckled mercilessly.

“Sam? You’re drinking the hard stuff at,” Dean checked his watch,“11am, hanging in the doorway with your face all...” His brother waved a hand widely and made an exaggerated scowly face…

“So let’s hear it W-h-a-t’s w-r-o-n-g, did you find some _even better_ news on Kelly. Discover there _is_ such a thing as a purple people eater, an’ ones taken up residence under your bed. Or did Cas finally call, tell you he’s been AWOL ‘cause he eloped with Crowley? … lay it on me.”

“No! … It’s not… I just had a weird conversation with Michele…”

“Vision? or did it involve a wendigo and a slide? ‘Cause I wouldn’t worry dude, turns out it was just a duck with a screwy name. Admittedly naming ducks and teaching them to go down slides is a bit freaky … just not really worth looking all…” Dean waved his hand again.

Everything Dean just spouted made next to no sense, Sam shot his brother a measured look, sniffing at the air cautiously, and wondered if the silver had been giving off some sort of fumes. “Uh… Dean.. Maybe you need some air?” He suggested.

Dean grunted irritably, “I don’t need _air_ Sam! The Shire’s answer to Mary Poppins does weird stuff. Says weird unsettling shit too apparently, ‘cause it’s driving my brother to drink.” 

“She’s not driving me to drink!”

“Mmm hmm.” Dean shot the glass in his hand a significant look and crossed his arms, “so _this_ is a new health trip?”

“You’re one to talk,” Sam pushed off the door frame, annoyed with his brother’s hypocrisy. Dropped the glass to the work bench in disgusted denial, felt droplets of whisky bounce out and splatter his shirt.

“Least I’m talkin’,” Dean stepped closer, picked up the glass and downed the rest of it. Sam watched his eyes close languidly, and his throat work as he swallowed.

Dean lowered the glass from his lips with a small huff of breath, looked at him challengingly with the corner of his mouth twitched up and stepped closer still, pushing inside Sam’s comfort zone almost aggressively.

“W-h-a-t’s w-r-o-n-g S-a-m?” Dean enunciated slowly, his face only inches away from his younger brothers.

At the wash of his breath, hot, whisky soaked and far to close, Sam stepped back, turning his face away.

“Michele just … decided to give me some unsolicited advice about my sex life. It was weird okay?!” He cleared his throat uncomfortably, feeling his cheeks heat.

Dean turned back to the work bench and busied himself removing the cooled silver rounds from the Petrobond.

“What happened between you and Eileen?” Dean’s question was surprisingly soft.

“W-what do you mean…?”

“The night we got back from getting our asses kicked by Dagon, think Mitch had a vision. She phased out, dropped the phone, called you an idiot. Don’t think she meant for me to hear, but I did.  
Then when I asked, she told me it wasn’t any of my business, that it wasn’t hers either. Next morning Eileen’s gone.

Add in Mitch’s unsolicited advice… It doesn’t take a college education to figure it out Sammy.”

“N-nothing happened Dean.”

Dean snorted “Nothing huh?”

“Eileen kissed me, it got heated, then I told her I-I couldn’t. End of story.”

“And what? Mrs Moral Majority told you to keep it in your pants?”

“No…. that’s _just it_ … It was pretty much the exact opposite!” Sam hunched his shoulders, pinching at the bridge of his nose and huffed, refused to look up as his brother gave a surprised bark of laughter.

“What exactly _did_ she say?”

“She said a lot of stuff… about Je-ss” Sam winced at the way his voice cracked, “l-letting myself m-move on, how…” Sam stopped, feeling his throat lock up, his eyes burn unexpectedly.

Because she’d been so… _kind,_ even though _he_ was the reason Jess died, was to blame for so much; Michele had been so _immovably gentle_ with everything she’d said, even when he’d snarled at her, said that it wasn’t any of her goddamn business… Found that now, he didn’t want to talk about or open anymore of what she’d said up for Dean’s mockery.

So, when Dean finally spoke his words came as a surprise.

“Sammy… you don’t need to tell me.  
But what I’m gonna say is, Mitch … she cares about you man … and maybe you oughta think about what she said.  
Cause while she’s one weird chick and spends her days luring ducks down slides at parks and would get eaten alive … by pretty much anything… she’s also I dunno… pretty smart about the stuff you and me suck at.”

Dean examined a Silver bullet closely and began polishing it.

“Now, you gonna help me load these or are you gonna start on the witch killers. Guess we oughta make some ammo for the Colt too…”

….

Much later, with the ammo restocked, Sam decided to go for a run and Dean took the chance to call Michele.

“Hello Dean.” The New Zealander’s greeting was unusually reserved, her lips put on a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes as she fiddled with the cross, rings … and _anti-possession charm_ strung round her neck.

“Hey cool! Guess it got there.” He enthused and gestured with a smirk, to cover his puzzlement at her cagey reception.

She looked down and dropped her hand away from the charm hastily, tucking it inside her shirt. 

“So, it _was_ you?” She asked, in a quiet colorless voice. It reminded him of how she’d sounded when she talked about dead kids and left him wondering if she’d had another vision.

“Mitch, you okay?”

She grimaced and looked down at her hands for a moment.

“Why did you send me that stuff?” She raised her eyes, unleashing one of her Puss in Boots looks at him.

Maybe she was freaked out? Thought the charm was a warning of imminent demonic invasion.

“It’s _just_ a precaution Mitch, if I really thought you were gonna be dealing with any black-eyed bastards I’d suggest a tattoo. Being possessed ain’t a thing I’d wish on you, is all, that cross... it’s pretty, but what they tell you in church an’ horror movies… don’t put your faith in it.”

“And the pills?”

“Your visions are gonna kill you.”

“So, what? You figure it’s kinder to finish me off quickly.” Her voice was barely over a whisper. “You may call me Sam’s pet, _but don’t think you have the right to take me to the vet and have me put down!”_

“Mitch what the fuck are you talking about huh? I don’t wantta put you down!”

“AnQuil, that little care package of yours, what else am I supposed to think?”

Man, there were moments … Dean clenched his jaw in irritation.

“Look, dunno why you’ve got your knickers in a knot.

Those pills, back when Sammy was getting visions I asked around, did some research. That sorta pills are supposed to block psychic abilities. I mean, yeah sure, they were developed for crazy people. But a surprising number of nut jobs are actually psychics with outta control powers. The pills I sent are strongest I could get. You _are_ actin’ a bit nuts...”

“You’re saying anti-psychotics block psychic powers? And what? You just asked for the strongest stuff they had?” Buried her face in her hands with a huff, but some of the brittle tension bled out of her stance.

“ _He’s and idiot._ ” She muttered into her fingers, looked up and blew out a long breath. “You are really good at killing monsters Dean, but you’re an _unbelievably crap_ doctor and your communication skills… Require work.

Yes, AnQuil is one of the strongest anti-psychotics, it’s used ‘to control disturbing, socially unacceptable, sexual behavior caused by mental illness.’”

A little chin lift, “They use it on sex offenders Dean!”

“Oh...” He could see how that info might make her a bit pissy with him. It didn’t explain why she thought, he thought, she was some sort of sick animal he wanted to gank.

“In the medical journals, it’s also linked with a bucket load of deaths of otherwise healthy patients. It’s associated with heart arrhythmia, deep vein thrombosis, pulmonary embolism, strokes, heart, liver and kidney failure. It messes with blood pressure and increases the destruction of red blood cells. I’d say the only reason it hasn’t been banned is because most of its target patients… are sex offenders and pedophiles... People don’t shed many tears over them.” She leaned back in her chair and her eyes fluttered closed as she continued speaking, “not to put too fine a point on it, but _I’m not healthy._ This thing, it is manageable… sort of.

But it’s a tightrope walk … and that’s without the effects of weird drug interactions…”

Dean’s stomach had been dropping with every new word in her little medical lecture.

“You’re sayin’ those pills coulda killed you?!”

She opened her eyes and nodded, looking almost apologetic. “Mmm hmm.”

“Fuck! Seriously Mitch?! I’m sorry! I screwed up. Major time!”

“Yeah cos ‘you know nothing Jon Snow’.” She favoured him with a sardonic look.

“Sooo not true, Jon knew howta make a chicks toes curl. That ain’t nothing!”

She shook her head and gave him a rueful smile, just like he hoped she would.

“Dean Winchester you are nothing if not predictable! Stick to playing _that_ kind of doctor in future… _and not with me_.”

Then her face sobered, and she tilted her head and stared at him solemnly.

“I **trust** you Dean, the only reason I looked those drugs up, before taking them was idle curiosity.

Can I ask why you didn’t discuss this with Sam? He probably doesn’t have access to the medical journals I do, but even so…”

When he didn’t answer, her eyes narrowed.

“You didn’t?! Oh, for heaven’s sake … please tell me you didn’t dose Sa-m with this stuff. Dean!? You didn’t! …”

He kept silent.

“You did! And he didn’t know? No of course he didn’t! Because otherwise … Oh Dean!…” He winced at the _disappointment_ in her voice.

“Mitch… I know it was screwed up, alright. I didn’t dose him for long, honest… It didn’t stop the visions; cos Sammy wasn’t a psychic... It was years ago, Mitch.

Are you gonna tell him?”

“Dean… did I tell you he was working with the British Men of Letters?” She sighed and brushed her hair back from her face, “the answer is no, I just nagged him to tell you himself… and he did... _Eventually_.

What you did was a long time ago? And I get why you did it. He would too… I think.

I have to say, I wish you two would learn not to keep secrets from and lie to each other. There’s **_never_** been a situation where you’ve made things better for yourselves by doing that.”

“You’re going for a double on talks that drive Winchesters to drink sweetheart. Gotta say I’d rather have gotten Sammy’s talk.”

It was her turn to look uncomfortable.

He gave her a thousand-watt smile enjoying her discomfort. “Why don’t you ever tell _me_ to get laid, why’s Sammy your favorite?”

“Dean… I doubt Sam took it as a mark of favoritism if, like you said, it drove him to drink... ” She sighed, screwed up her freckled nose and went all big eyed “Sam _has_ never offered to shoot me or accidentally tried to poison me.”

“Ouch!”

“But I still love you Dean Winchester. And you don’t need my permission to get laid, your sex life isn’t any of my business. That’s some of what I told your brother. If I see anything like that, it won’t change my regard for you, and I won’t mention it unless your life’s in danger okay? I’m … I’m really sorry for being so judgey.”

Dean cleared his throat loudly. “I’m gonna stop you right there Mitch.” He made a show of shuddering in distaste, “I’m cryin’ uncle, I don’t want Sammy’s lecture, has wayyy too many chickflick overtones and not nearly enough action.

Sorry I tried to poison you, there’s gotta be a anti-psychotic for people who talk like they’ve escaped from a hallmark movie, we’ll get you some of that.”

“No.”

“What d’ya mean, no?”

“I mean, please don’t.”

“Mitch com’on. We’ll get you something safe. I’ll research, get Sam to help me.”

“No.”

“Why the hell not… seriously Mitch?!”

“Two reasons, I don’t think I’m a psychic, but mostly because I don’t think I’m supposed to. And I don’t want to be Jonah.”

“Jonah?”

“Guy in the bible, he was a prophet, God told him to go to Nineveh with a message. He didn’t want to, so he tried to run away, God sent a storm and a big fish…”

“That’s a frickin kid’s story Mitch.”

“Why did the bible burn when Kelly put her hand on it, with Lucifer's child inside of her, if it’s just a book of made up stories? I saw that Dean.  
The bible’s made of ink and paper, printed the same way as any other book, but it has POWER and it wouldn’t have that power if it was a book of lies.”

“Okay fine. But Cas said you’re not a prophet! So even if that dude Jonah did get swallowed by a whale for not doing what he was told. It don’t mean anything worse than _what’s already happenin’_ is gonna happen to you if you take some pills and put a lid on the visions.”

“What about you and Sam?”

“What about me and Sam?”

“What if I _do_ take the pills, and they _work,_ and I _miss_ a vision I’m supposed to have… and because of that you or Sam _die_?”

“We can look after ourselves!”

“Or you don’t find Kelly in time and Dagon uses her son as a weapon to do something awful.”

“It’s not your job to save the world.”

“True, but it’s not yours either.  
We all make choices Dean; we all decide what we do with what we’re given. There’s a parable Jesus told – also in the bible. The parable of the talents, it’s the story of how a master gives his three servants ‘talents,’ uh money, to look after when he goes away on a journey. Two put the money to work and invest it… one buries it in a hole in the ground. The master comes back…”

“Yeah, I’ve read the bible…

Don’t be like one of those whack jobs on the news that refuse a transfusion causea some obscure verse, Mitch.”

“Do you see me refusing transfusions? I’m the blood banks most grateful supporter Dean. Though… that scripture, ‘the life of a creature is in the blood,’ when you apply it to Azazel and Sam, or that demon cure… or blood magic in general …” she blinked slowly “‘there’s power in the blood,’ to quote the old song.” Her voice was thoughtful, almost serene. “So many cultures…shed blood… it’s a reoccurring theme… I wonder...”

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop right now!” He barked at the screen; hands clenched hard on the laptop’s plastic housing.

She blinked at him in surprise. “What?! It’s just interesting… like the fact silver’s got antibacterial qualities and the highest electrical and thermal conductivity of any metal, I often wonder whether that’s why it effects supernatural entities.”

“You’re a geek!”

“Mmm hmm, dunno why that surprises you, I’ve got the glasses to prove it. Look Dean I better get going I’m supposed to be packing. And I have my Mum’s birthday cake to ice.”

“What? Why do you need to pack?”

“We’re going up north tomorrow for a week. Staying with my in-laws, hubby’s putting an alarm system in his sister’s new house up there; and no matter how loud I object, me and Johnny have to go too.” She suddenly looked downright miserable; her hand crept up to grip the little cross strung round her neck like she was looking for comfort.

“You don’t like your in-laws?”

“I don’t think _they_ like me much,” she dropped her head, “I mean I get it, lots of people think I’m an annoying little goody two shoes, and I’m the world’s worst brood mare … and then after Johnny was born I gave up my career … .” She shrugged. “My in-laws are sceptical about the whole autism thing to say the least, think it’s all because I spoil him. They don’t believe there’s anything wrong with him that a damn good hiding wouldn’t fix, and Phil’s Dad is more than willing to dole it out if he’s given any excuse. It’s just… tense… and I feel like I’m walking on eggshells with them.  
But hey! it’s just life, we all go through it.

Like I told Sam, I won’t have wifi up there, just my phone data and I’ll be trying to save it, so I won’t be round much.

But, I’ll let you know if I have any visions.”

She still looked small and miserable, suddenly he wished he could hug her or something.

“You’re a good Mum, it’ll be okay.” He offered.

She straightened her shoulders, nodded and lifted her chin. A faint smile ghosted her lips.

“Yeah, I know. Now I have to go and ice that carrot cake.”

“Putting vegetables in a cake you’re a frickin’ sadist Mitch.” He scoffed.

“Yes, I’m _very cruel._ making my mother her favorite cake for her birthday. Not everyone can send deadly drugs as a way of showing they care.” She rolled her eyes and logged off before he could argue.


	75. If you're gone

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 75: If you’re gone**

Michele turned the mixer off and examined the new icing.

She’d been going for a soft, feminine, pastel purple... but Mr 2 had been ‘helping’ at the critical moment and the resulting icing was a rather shocking deep navy blue.

The woman removed her glasses and knuckled her eyes taking a few deep breaths and fought the urge to scream in frustration.

The way she was going her mother’s birthday cake was going to look like a bad piece of abstract art.

First the pink cream cheese icing decided not to hold it’s shape; and by the time she’d gotten halfway around the cake piping a ring of roses, the first had transformed into a blobby pink mess, followed in quick succession by all the others. 

Now, this second batch of icing looked like it would hold up okay, but it didn’t exactly scream loving mother’s 64th birthday and would probably stain everyone’s teeth permanently blue.

Disappointment and frustration flared sharp in her chest.

There were so many moments lately where it was obvious that things are getting flakey round the edges.

Usually she enjoys this, spends a week mentally planning and multiple hours creating, a birthday cake for one of her family.

Now, she is just going through the motions, trying to tick the boxes and not let on that she is barely keeping it together.

With a weary sigh she used a knife to mash and smooth the failed pink roses into a half moon shape and loaded the **blue** into a piping-bag to make a second attempt on the accursed roses.

……

“Is that Oma's birthday cake?” A small voice asked from behind her.

Michele nodded without looking up as her oldest son wandered in (he’d been hiding from the sound of the mixer in his room, but apparently the lure of the icing bowl had drawn him out, now that all was quiet,) he hovered silently in the doorway watching her add a few green leaves around the roses.

“The roses were supposed to be pink and purple, but the pink ones melted and Chris was _helping, so_ we tipped in wayy too much blue, so navy it is.”

“I like blue, blue’s better than purple.” Her son stated in his ‘these are the facts’ voice, continuing to watch.

Johnny always had a way of watching that made her feel like she was pinned at the centre of his universe and her tiniest motions were weighted with immense revelation for him.

“Oma’s really old, isn’t she?”

“We’ve discussed this. We don’t say people, _especially girls_ , are really old to their faces… even if we think they are, okay?” Michele reminded softly, because she is his navigator, and knows not everyone appreciates the truth as Johnny Chadwick dispenses it.

“I remember.” Her son frowned thoughtfully “but 64 _is_ **_really_** old. Eight times what I am.”

“Mmm hmm, Oma’s age is the square of yours.”

Her son sees those patterns and finds joy in them.

“And…. _It’s done_.” Michele leaned back and surveyed the finished cake critically, “I guess it’ll do. Where’s my phone? Better get photographic evidence in case it melts, or we drop it on the way to the car.”

“So… you don’t _need_ the rest of the icing?” Her son asked hopefully, his eyes dialled themselves all the way up to ‘ _Awwww how could you possibly say no to this face.’_  
Heaven help her.

What was that parenting curse? “May you be blessed with a child just like you.” Now she’s seen herself through someone else’s eyes, she can concede she’s got exactly what she deserves.

Taking four teaspoons from the draw, she scooped some of the pink icing onto each, _(‘leftovers of the blue are getting washed down the drain so don’t even ask kiddo.’)_

“Take eat, my child. This is icing, given for you and for your siblings also. Verily I say, taste and see that thy mother is good.” She declared in ponderous pseudo-religious tones, as though she is handing out communion, handed over the spoons.

“One spoon for each of you. Jen, Vic, Chris and you.” She finished more seriously.

She ruffled her son’s hair and sent him off, then picked up her phone to take photos; saw a message on Skype from Peaches (unlike Sam and Dean, Peaches knew the small secret that just because she looked like she was off line it didn’t mean she always was.)

**Peaches, 4:16PM  
** **My entire creative writing class think there’s something wrong with me.**

The little message was plaintive and made Michele sigh.  
Sure, she could see how some people _might_ find the incongruity of Peaches and her work disturbing, if they didn’t bother to get to know her. People that age were so often cliquey, dumb and just plain mean.

Peaches was an amazing kid, it took a while to breach her surface, but if you weren’t intimidated by how smart she was and got past her shyness, (because she was shy,) the dividends were huge.

The story Peaches written recently, called “Curiosity” was probably to blame.

It _was_ pretty horrifying, the slow slide of a naive young girl into the ice-cold orbit of the boy next door.

A boy who kills her pet cat ‘out of curiosity,’ then moves away.

Years later the girl meets the boy, now a young man, again… _It was not a love story_ , though the boy next door had definitely remembered her through the years.

It _was_ a really unsettling and awful story … and amazing for all that, like most of what Peaches wrote. 

4:17PM  
Some people distill their darkness and pour it into fiction where it does no harm and acts as an important cautionary tale. Others dilute it and pour it into the world in the form of general bitchiness.

4:18PM  
They’re just jealous because your writing makes them look bad in comparison.

She typed by way of a reply.

**Peaches, 4:19PM  
** **I like exploring the workings of deranged minds, horror and creepiness.**

Michele could almost imagine her friend’s defensive look as she wrote that.

At Peaches age Michele had loved Steven King, Dean Koontz, Frank Herbert and H.P Lovecraft, there was something about the bulletproof confidence of youth that revelled in horror stories. Possibly because you’d never known the reality of fear. Then you had kids, and the excitement and adventure of the idea of evil abroad in the world needing to be battled, transformed into the reality of a sick dread that bad things _could actually happen to your children._

4:20PM  
I know sweetness. But not because you’re a potential serial killer! Smart people like to explore, to try understanding things both inside and outside of ourselves, that’s all…

4:21PM  
Of course, I _do_ wish your writing had a few more puppies and M&Ms, a bit more balance...?

She didn’t want Peaches to change, but she knew a little more light and a bit less shadow in her class writing might help.

4:22PM  
Fluff isn’t toxic in small doses. That said don’t change who you are or what you write for a bunch of Mills and Boon wanna be writers.

**Peaches, 4:23PM  
** **I got Dean to spoil Sam ice cream a few chapters ago.**

4:24PM  
Yes, you did!

Michele smiled as she typed, she’d felt an odd satisfaction in reading that chapter.

Sometimes that was all she wanted, to take those two boys and feed them ice cream and watch them laugh with no worries on their shoulders for 5 minutes.  
Her last conversations with both Winchesters had been... rather… uncomfortable for all concerned.

Too often she added to their worries.

To say she wasn’t looking forward to the trip away was a massive understatement, (the hospital was an hour away if she needed a transfusion, she’d be in enemy territory and the thought of standing between her (control freak with anger issues) father-in -law and her traumatized autistic child for a _whole week,_ without nuking that entire relationship, it made her feel sick.)

But maybe the Winchesters could do with space from her. Life was what it was, she could only hope to exercise acceptance and look for a silver lining.

4:25PM  
Speaking of desert, do you think my Mum will like her birthday cake?

**Peaches, 4:26PM  
** **Cool blue**

4:27PM  
Yes, if one of the kids get carsick on our journey north after eating a slice, it will look REALLY cool on the upholstery. Mr 2 ‘helped’ - there’s like half a bottle of food colouring in those roses.

**Peaches, 4:28PM  
** **I have images of a car full of blue kid puke now, thanks for that.**

****

Michele laughed and considered threatening to send photos, if blue kid puke did eventuate.

  
Then noticed she’d missed a call. Frowned in confusion at the caller ID, which said the call had hailed from

London, England, United Kingdom.

There was no voice mail message, so it _had_ to be a wrong number or a scam like those ones going around a while back from India, claiming to be from Microsoft, “ringing about error messages your PC is sending... and if she would just follow their simple instructions to give them remote access of her PC….” Seriously?! She might be a tech idiot but _even she_ hadn’t been dumb enough to fall for _that_. 

4:29PM  
Do you ever get scam calls on your cells there?

**Peaches, 4:30PM  
** **Sometimes, it’s usually home phones though. What was their spiel?**

4:31PM  
I missed it, apparently the call was from London, England. I don’t know anyone there. So, I’m thinking either it was a wrong number or scammers in the UK are branching out.

**Peaches, 4:31PM  
** **Orrr …  
** **Maybe it’s an over enthusiastic fic fan. I keep telling you, you shouldn’t put so much of yourself into your story. It’s not safe.**

It was hilarious, if the idiots in Peaches writing course saw how often Peaches worried about the cyber safety of a grown woman on the other side of the world, they’d get what a sweetheart she really was.

4:32PM  
Nope, I do have some readers there (all hail the mighty traffic graph,) but for some reason (barring my lovely Cat,) only Americans bother to review my drivel.

4:33PM  
I have a theory that it’s because America is such a world super power - you’re all just more confident and opinionated because of it.  
Of course, the supernatural books are American, so there’s that.

**Peaches, 4:35PM  
** **I have it….**

**Peaches, 4:36PM  
** **…**

**Peaches, 4:36PM**

****

Peaches drew it out. 

**Peaches, 4:36PM**

****

**Peaches, 4:37PM  
** **The call was _actually_ from the British Men of Letters.**

****

**Peaches, 4:37PM  
** **They’ve tracked you down and want your advice on werewolf vaccines.**

**Peaches, 4:38PM  
** **Go on, write it into your fic and Dance on those shattered pieces of your fourth wall.**

4:39PM  
“Fourth Wall”???

**Peaches, 4:40PM  
** **The barrier between fiction and real life.**

4:40PM  
There’s a barrier?

Michele smiled sarcastically at her phone as she typed.

Since she met Sam and Dean, she really had her doubts.

**Peaches, 4:41PM  
** **For normal people.**

****

_(‘Yes, and I’m sooo not normal anymore’)_ the New Zealander thought silently as another message popped up.

**Peaches, 4:42PM  
** **Sometimes reading your stuff is like an epic case of déjà vu. I’m never sure whether what we talk about is going to end up in your fic. But that’s what’s so cool, I loved how you manage to work stuff in... like the duck!**

4:43PM  
I just wish I’d taken a photo or video of it, it _was_ epic.

4:43PM  
Believe me, truth is stranger than fiction Peachy girl. Ugh I better get moving! I’ve got Sooo much to do before we leave… and guess what?

**Peaches, 4:44PM  
** **What?**

4:45PM  
Apparently, adding to the fun, we are going to be driving right into cyclone Cook. It’s supposed to be gale force winds, torrential rain and flooding… I don’t suppose I’ll be lucky enough to be saved from the in-laws by it though.

**Peaches, 4:45PM  
** **Don’t drown, please. And drive safe.**

4:46PM  
Goodbye…And remember fair maiden, if you should need us, yes should you need us, for any reason at all…

**Peaches, 4:46PM  
** **Us?**

4:47PM  
Well you know I do come as part of a set, buy one, get four kids and a husband for free… but in this case I was quoting the end scene of the labyrinth. I loved that movie. Please tell me you know the movie!!!

4:48PM  
Your line is ‘I don’t know why but, every now and again in my life – for no reason at all… I need you.’ -Holds up hand dramatically- Hush.. please don’t don’t burst my bubble, I can dream it’s true.

**Peaches, 4:49PM  
** **Every now and again… it is.**

4:50PM  
Love you kiddo! Don’t you dare stop doing your own amazing thing and being the writer you are meant to be, Okay? Steven King, Edgar Alan Poe and H. P Lovecraft probably have/had the same issues. -hugs-

4:51PM  
Like I tell Johnny, never make yourself less to fit other’s expectations. Blind them with your brilliance! Cya

…ooo0ooo…

Sam Winchester sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before raking his hair back once more and continued to the rifle through the war era file boxes.

  
He was positive he’d seen it in here somewhere, back when they’d been looking for a way to neutralize The Darkness.

A file folder labelled Diabolic Princes.

Grinding his palms over gritty eyes he tried to tell himself the burning was due to dust in the hardly used store room; but knew it wasn’t.

  
He’d been up all-night reading tomes on demons, trying to find a way to track Dagon, trying to do anything really, as long as it kept him awake. 

Nightmares, they were something no hunter could avoid or slay, and Sam was no stranger to them.  
Lucifer had given him enough fuel to last 1000 normal men a hundred lifetimes.   
He should be immune, should have hardened up by now. Like catastrophic injury, his body should shut down the ability to feel it after a while …. But he wasn’t immune, and he hadn’t hardened up.

It wasn’t even as if these dreams were anything new. He’d seen Jess burn on the ceiling a million times, Mom and Dean too.

You’d think he’d grow numb… But somehow It-never-stopped-.  
Lucifer had had a special fondness for re-enacting that horror over and over, twisting it, screwing every last drop of anguish from his cage mate.  
Lucifer had swapped out the faces, but the script remained surprisingly unchanged.   
A small part of Sam had wondered, much later, if the archangel for all his overwhelming power … simply lacked real imagination.  
It was true that none of Lucifer’s torments had actually _surprised him_ with their inventiveness or had been outside what he could imagine _(-only those moments when Lucifer had revealed his true face.-)_  
…Sam physically flinched at _that_ thought, his traitor mind chose to vomit up…  
Preferable even to think about that first time, when he’d watched Lucifer pin Dean to the cage’s ceiling, and rip him open, felt his brother’s hot blood splatter down over his upturned face, while Lucifer mocked his in-ability _to do anything_ but watch…

Dean’s wide green eyes had never left his as he burned screaming above.

That first time he’d _believed_ it was real, that somehow his brother had found a way to join him, and had been trying to rescue him.

Sam pushed the thought, the memories of that soul deep panic away.  
They called Lucifer father of lies for a reason, even in his dreams Lucifer lied.  
He will never use Sam’s hands to hurt Dean or anyone else again.  
Azazel is dead, no one else will burn on the ceiling because of his schemes in Lucifer’s name.

Jess is safe in heaven. Mom is on a hunt in Texas, not safe exactly but… doing what she wants.  
Sam isn’t sure if they _truly_ wouldn’t want him to blame himself, if they _would_ want him to be happy like Michele told him.

But maybe…

Mom said the reason she was working with the Men of Letters was towards the goal of a world without monsters, normal lives, for them all.

Thing is, Sam has doubts if he will ever be _fit_ to lead a normal life now.

He'd seen Lucifer sent back to the cage, and can feel nothing but frustration that his sleeping self **_still_** replaying the horrors over and over.  
He can’t push it down, without it leaking and staining everything else.  
So, no, the dreams were nothing new, but recently they seem rawer.  
He wonders if it is because of Kelly’s kid. The chilling unknown factor. Would it be it’s mother’s or mother’s son?

Tonight, or he guessed it was probably last night now, he just hadn’t been able to face the dreams.  
Especially if like last time, near the end … just before the flames obscured everything… the face, the eyes that looked down into his from the ceiling _changed_ , becoming softer edged, less sculpted, eyes more innocent and a brighter green than Dean’s, with filled him with panicked recognition.

He’d lurched awake wiping at his face frantically, sleep addled brain expecting to see blood on his hands.

Blood always blood.

Which was how he came to be here, searching for a half remembered file folder, in a room full of boxes after a night of no sleep.

Because it was better than attempting sleep and facing dreams.  
Or even, making himself not stare at the Skype app on his laptop screen, far too aware of an absence that shouldn’t bother him, but … does.

It's stupid, just like a stray cat he’d somehow let in and fed; Michele had made herself at home in his life and he’s gotten used to her sharing his space, getting into his business and simply being there, slightly underfoot, as if she had a God given right to be there.  
Now, she's away, off about her own business, (again like a cat) and her absence is like the space left by a missing tooth, one he keeps probing at unconsciously.

It had only been two days.  
Two days since she sent him and Dean both that email full of road trip photos. A giant 1,940-foot-high carrot (growing carrots was that town's claim to fame, apparently.) A massive rain boot constructed of roofing tin in another small town, where apparently folk got together once a year and threw the things competitively. A town called Bulls with cow statues and weird Bull puns signposted all over (there was a photo of the police station and its sign “Const-a-Bull.”) Fields full of sheep and her kids posing on top of an army tank at ‘war museum’ along the way.   
Two days since she’d described driving into that cyclone, her offhand satirical commentary which reminded him of her emails in the early days.

Two days wasn’t that long, and it wasn’t like she was in any danger, (maybe...he’d checked the news websites. The cyclone had only caused minor property damage, and nothing newsworthy in her in-laws town.)  
Really, he had no reason to be ****** over her absence, (he wasn’t even sure he had a word for how he felt), he often didn’t talk to her for days on end while they were out on a case.

But he always knew he could… Now he gets the impression that he shouldn't.

Sam dropped another box onto the pile at his feet and huffed in self derision, opening it.  
And there it was, the reason for his search “Diabolic Princes.”

  
Opening the Manila folder, he flipped through the pages looking for any mention of Dagon.  
Nothing leaped out, but he’d go through it carefully.

Heading back down the hallway towards the library he heard Deans voice and Cas’s name, it sounded like Dean was leaving yet another message.

“Come on. Cas, it's me. I've been trying to get ahold of you for days. I don't know what's going on, but we got a line on Dagon...And we got our asses handed to us, even with the Colt. So... could really use the backup. Call me back.” Dean’s voice rumbled from the other side of the war room as he approached.

Sam studied his brother’s slumped shoulders. “So, no luck with Cas, huh?”

“Yeah, still AWOL.” Dean looked away and seated himself at the map table, pulled his gun cleaning kit in front of him.

“All right, so let's find him.” Sam sat at his laptop. It had been long enough.

“I've been trying, Sam.” His brother gave him an annoyed look. “The GPS on his phone is turned off, and there's nothing in the system about some weird guy in a trench coat getting arrested. Or turning up dead.” Dean looked away, slid the gun from its holster under the map table and turned his attention towards cleaning it.

“Right...” Sam sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. It occurred to him that Cas being missing and both their repressed worry over him, might be contributing to things.  
“Dean, it's Cas. I mean, this isn't the first time he's dropped off the map, you know? And whatever's happening, he'll be fine. He always is…”

“Yeah.” Dean didn’t sound any more convinced by his words than Sam felt.

Sam watched his own fingers tap nervously on the tabletop and tried to still them as Dean continued cleaning the gun, his movements sharp and jerky with repressed emotion.  
Cas has always survived true, but he’d dug himself some pretty big holes.

“What 'bout you? You got anything there, reading rainbow?”

“I stayed up all night, going through every book we have on demons. And it turns out we have _a lot of books on demons.”_

“Anything on Dagon?”

“Mentions here and there, but nothing we can use. I guess the, uh, Princes of Hell are pretty good at staying off the radar.” He smiled and raised his eyebrows at his brother.

“Well, yeah, isn't that kind of their thing?”

It sure seemed that way.

The laptop chimed, and a notification popped up

“Hmm. Just got an e-mail from Mick... It's a case.”

“Good!”

It was probably what they both needed to take their minds off things.

“Looks like a guy named Jarrod Hayes disappeared in Tomahawk, Wisconsin, a week ago. No witnesses. No body. But Mick says this place has a history.”

“Meaning?”

Sam opened the attachments on Mick’s email.

“Well, it means a lot of people go missing in Tomahawk, one a year, every year, from 1898 to 1997, and then nothing until now.”

“So, 20 years?” Some of Dean’s agitation had dropped away, working the case in front of them, it gave them a focus and a plan.

“Yeah. So maybe they're starting up again? Maybe it's a cycle of some sort?”

“Well...One way to find out…”

It was almost a relief to send Mick a reply and say they were on it.


	76. Lead me not into temptation

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 76: Lead me not into temptation**

Michele turned a worried gaze onto her eldest son as he sat curled in the corner of the room staring intently at his iPad, sighing tiredly she stroked a hand through her sleeping two-year old’s shaggy mop.

_(‘Four more days, we can hold it together for four more days,’)_ she told herself.

She’s not really convinced, feels exhausted, like she either wants to cry or hit something. Wants to go home!

She’s spent the past four days trying to tell herself she’s being over-sensitive, only imagining the unsubtle exclusion of her and her sons. That her in-laws just don’t know how to handle their ‘different’ grandsons.

Trying to be the calm anchor her autistic son needs, while internally simmering with resentment, praying for strength and holding on with white knuckles to the Christian virtues she’s supposed to stand for.

Her in-laws have taken the twins and their 3 girl cousins out for ice-cream, they decided to do so while Mr 2 was napping, which meant Michele couldn’t go…. And because his mother couldn’t go, Johnny hadn’t been willing to go either.

After the previous Christmas visit, where she had walked back into the room to see his grandfather looming over her son, yelling at him, and drawing back to whack the boy for some minor infraction, Michele couldn’t really blame the kid.

Yes she had forced herself between her father-in-law and her son and taken him to time out, stopping things from devolving further. But both of them had been shocked and unnerved.

She’ll admit in the silence of her own head that she’s relieved, and doesn’t want either of her sons out of her sight, and doesn’t trust her in-laws anymore, even in public.

The Christmas incident had blindsided her, Johnny hadn’t earned the bizarre over-reaction. She’d _never_ seen her father-in-law respond to any of their other grandchildren’s _often worse_ behaviour in that way.

Her husband’s parents had always been amazing grandparents to her twin stepdaughters, have _never_ so much as raised their voices to the girls (even when fallen angel one and two had totally deserved it.)

Her husbands parents spoil the twins rotten and had often acted as if Michele’s loving discipline was excessive. 

Which was mostly okay, great even, in some ways, every kid should have doting grandparents.

That’s the thing, _every kid should_... that’s what’s so unfair! Her son is so fragile, and overwhelmed by internal battles, anxieties and fears, he struggles _so hard_ just to navigate in the world… if any kid _needs_ a dose of unreserved love and acceptance, _it’s him._

Bewilderingly there appears to be two sets of standards in the family she married into.

Either because there’s a weird sexism at work, or because this particular boy is _her son_. They dote on their daughter and all their granddaughters and let them get away with any and everything they want. But she’s come to realise, after examination, that the leniency doesn’t extend to boys, specifically her autistic son. 

Now she is looking, she can see echoes of something similar in her husband’s relationship with his parents as well.

She used to joke her husband suffers from forgotten middle child syndrome, but now she wonders if this sex-based bias is the real root of all his insecurities, and the way he constantly strives to please authority figures.

Ohhh she knows she can’t talk, what did that one book reviewer say scathingly about the Supernatural fans? “Most of them have Daddy issues.”

Michele’s a pragmatist, if the shoe fits… 

_Her_ father is a bully, one who is impossible to please, one that never had qualms over whacking his kids, back when it was legal, and she was growing up.

_(But not anymore, he’s restricted himself to emotional manipulation, verbal abuse and bluster since she was 14 and prayers were answered.)_

Thing is her father’s never played favourites (he’s pretty much a prick to everyone.) His rules with her and her brother growing up were excessive, unreasonable and sometimes downright harsh. He barely tolerates _all_ of his grandkids; but he knows he doesn’t have the right to hit someone else’s child.

Her own father’s attitude is just part of his narcissistic, self-absorbed (possibly Asperger) personality, it is hurtful, but also sort of impersonal, applicable to everyone.

In her pocket her phone buzzes.

It’s an email. From Nic, “The smartest kid in the room.”   
They’ve been sending emails back and forth over the last few days of her ‘exile to the flooded north, land of evil in-laws.’

Yesterday she had sent her friend an email congratulating her on landing a new job (yay!) and outlining her slave labour and epic battle with the evil spider hoard. (She’d been tasked with cleaning the windows of the rental house her sister-in-law was moving out of,) being a _lovely friend_ she even attached a photo of one particularly large, hairy specimen for Nic’s viewing horror, (hadn’t actually mentioned that New Zealand only had one poisonous spider… one that lived in sand dunes and was both tiny and endangered… so her heroic spider battling held no risk of personal injury, just a lot of “Ugh! Please don’t fall in my hair.”)

Resultantly, her most loyal reviewer was suitably impressed by her do-daring bravery against the spider hoard.

Nic also mentioned that her birthday was approaching soon…. and could her favourite ficwriter perhaps… include some wet Dean in one of her next chapters, please, pretty pretty please!

Michele stared at the email, uncertain what her friend was actually requesting, but felt certain that neither she or Dean wanted to be a part of production of any chapter containing, “wet Dean” … Actually, neither did her poor fic-friend Cougar, who got to listen to her have a minor breakdown every-time a chapter threw up something that was, as the AO3 writer put it, (both exasperated and indulgently amused at the New Zealander’s whining,) ‘barely smutt adjacent.’

The thing was, Michele liked Nic, she had been a good friend, (and her reviews were gold.) It was a pressure valve, swapping messages with her fic-friends during her ‘Exile to the flooded North,’ and being able to express the indignities she was suffering at the hands of ‘the Evil in-laws.’

So a big part of her just _really_ _wanted to_ indulge Nic’s request… but how could she do that?

When she was forced to write only what she saw, what actually happened?

….

The house phone began ringing and Michele left off pondering fan-service and the suckery of writing Winchester Gospels. Went to answer it, hoping it might be her husband or sister-in-law.

“Hello Chadwick residence, Michele Chadwick speaking.”

“Can I speak to Raymond Chadwick please?” the voice on the other end requested.

“Ummm they’re out, I can take a message, and get him to call you when he returns.”

“Yes.. the sooner the better. Or, is there some way of contacting him? It’s very important. Regarding an urgent bone-scan Mr Chadwick has been referred for. We have an appointment available on Thursday, due to a cancellation. We really need a reply within the hour, or the slot will be given to the next most urgent patient on the list.”

She blinked, “Yes, Uhm please give me the details… I’ll … I’ll chase him down and get him to call you as soon as possible.”

Michele hung up the phone feeling a little sick.

Her father-in-law needed an urgent bone scan?!

Michele closed her eyes with a wince.   
A bone scan was used to check if cancer had metastasised, Michele knew that … she’d been with her friend Nic through all of that, ( ** _the other Nic,_** her dear friend whose slow spiralling death would now, forever, haunt Michele’s birthday.) The memory of holding her too thin, worn brittle friend in a helpless hug, while sobs racked the both of them, after the news the bone scan had given Nic a ticking clock and little hope. 

Those memories were close, as Michele began the urgent task of tracking down her father-in-law to hand on the message.

…ooo0ooo…

The older generation was totally maddening at times, why they owned cell phones but didn’t bother carrying or charging them was one of life’s most irritating mysteries.

Her daughters had used up their phone credit and none of her nieces answered theirs either.

Her husband had left his phone behind that morning, and her sister-in-law’s phone was probably in a box packed for the move… and of course her husband had the car…

….

Finally,… finally! She ended up calling the ice-cream place direct and wheedled the boy that answered into finding and letting her speak to her father-in-law.

Who took the details and said he’d call the hospital back immediately. Then, asked tersely if she’d said anything to anyone else, ordered her not to, and hung up.

…ooo0ooo…

All that morning and the rest of the day Michele kept her silence, wanting to talk to her husband about what she now knew, wanting to ask questions, waiting for her in-laws to say something, anything!

But she received nothing but forbidding looks. So she held her peace.

At some point a horrible thought hit her, a question, an accusation. 

It slowly loomed larger in her mind as the hours ticked by, a sinking feeling of guilt that sat in her gut like an acid fist. 

Despite attempts not to, Michele knew she bordered on hating her father-in-law since the awful Christmas incident.   
She’d never to prayed for the man to come to harm, (she’d never do that again; not since she was 14, and sure her father would lose it and really hurt her.)

She would never ask … but … people who hurt her, or were anything resembling a threat to her …. Bad stuff just _happened_ to them.

Her father, a spate of bullies at school, that weird kid that had befriended her and went on and on about witchcraft, the first boy to kiss her, who then broke her 11 year old heart by kissing some other girl the next day, her brother’s Uni friend who took a shine to her, and kept offering her pot, a university lecturer that had it in for her, the cute uni classmate who had asked her out, (but thought dating a girl meant he was _owed_ sex and had boasted to his friends that he was going to collect, from _her,_ on their next date. A date that never happened, because a bizarre accident happened to him first and then his friends clued her in to the fact that he wasn’t actually a very nice guy, when she visited him in hospital.)

She’d spent years denying it, and telling herself that it was all just a string of weird coincidences …. Things happened, and they meant nothing, (she was a scientist) and maybe she would have kept believing that …

Except, she now found herself conscripted to the very unenviable job of a prophetic ghost writer, and a friend to two men who spent their days tracking and killing rogue mythical and magical creatures.

Ignoring and writing off a world that was unexplainable with science had gotten HARD lately.

Sam might say God didn’t care, that He never answered prayers or bothered with his creation … but all her life Michele had felt it...

Listened to by a protective presence, shielded against harm, steadied by a hand that turned her away from darkness. 

  
She’d been the little girl, all of three who desperately wanted a bunny rabbit after a trip to the zoo, and couldn’t eat or sleep from the power of the childish longing. Her Mother always shook her head, telling the story of how Frisky the white rabbit came, her mother had walked out the front door the next day, and found the rabbit just sitting on lawn. “When Michele prays, God listens,” her mother would say.

And when Johnny got the little brother he’d prayed so piteously for, it was agreed, her eldest son had inherited the trait.

She had been a child standing on her parent’s drought-stricken farm, who had raised her face with a childish prayer on her lips; then danced, twirling and laughing in the replying rain, the drops falling on her cheeks like kisses. 

  
She’d been the teenager with a leg broken in three places after a tumble from her horse, that had crawled leading her horse, and prayed for help, for whom help came, in the shape of a stranger on a chestnut horse no one could track down afterwards.

  
She’d been the University student who had sat on a hill and prayed for a city, (the minister at her church had preached on intercession and she’d felt called by the scripture in Nehemiah. Who thought she could change the world;) and had _seen_ crime statistics drop (then rise again after she finished university and moved away ….)

She’d been that young woman at a crossroads in her life, praying for proof that her life had a point; who had cupped a very dead fly in her closed palms, feeling like an idiot, and had breathed one soft breath over the tiny desiccated corpse and watched wide eyed, as the insect twitched, found its feet, then flew free.

As she grew older she’d told herself again and again it was her imagination, she had turned her face away from those moments … scared, and had shoved any thoughts about those moments deep. Doubted the memories were as she had perceived. She had made up possible explanations explaining things away.   
Because she believed in miracles, she believed that God loved her, would always keep her safe… but she also _didn’t want to._

Because if she accepted the miracles, she also had to accept the burden of the guilt for the people who got hurt. They often _weren’t evil_ , even if they weren’t always _nice_.

…. Besides, she’d _also_ been the woman who had watched her best friend die of cancer, despite all her silent attempts to recreate that moment with the fly; all her begging and prayers. Wasn’t a fellow mother and friend worthier of life in God’s eyes than a stupid fly?

She was _also_ the woman who laid her first precious child reluctantly in the dirt, and had never got to see him open his eyes, take a breath or laugh.

She was _also_ the mother of another boy, the smartest most beautiful child in the world, that had shattered into a million pieces when he went out into the world, and she hadn’t been able to protect or fix him, no matter how fervent her prayers had been.  


What were miracles worth if they didn’t save those you loved? What were miracles worth if they **_only_** cared about keeping _you_ safe, when all you loved broke and slid through your hands.

She never wanted to be protected like that, to watch others get hurt so she could be safe. To live with that guilt.

  
So, she told herself they were just coincidences.

**_And they could be damn it!_ **

She wasn’t special or worthy ~ just one soul, in a sea of souls that hoped and prayed and tried to do their best with the time they had


	77. Not written By C.S Lewis

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 77: Not written by C.S Lewis**

Michele stifled a whimper and dragged out her phone, stared at the screen with pain squinted eyes silently hoping and praying one of her fic-friends would log on.

  
Begged for some other solution and stared at Sam’s name with acidic nerves, wanted, so badly to turn tail and run …. find another way.

But she was running out of time and other options. She can’t afford to end up with a nosebleed that won’t stop, and land in hospital or risk her in-laws being in charge of her son; because she hasn’t posted a chapter _._

_(‘I **can’t** post it, it’s **not** that I **don’t** **want** **to!** _

_Damn one-horse town, damn cyclone, damn Easter long weekend.’)_

She’s always uses a PC to post her chapters, she used the PC at the tiny town public library to post the last one and hadn’t expected to need to publish another so soon.  
The library is closed for the four-day Easter weekend, and while she was confident Cougar, Peaches or Cat could and would post the chapter for her _if she could ask,_ they are all conspicuous in their absence.

Today circumstances are conspiring in the worst possible way.

Which left Sam ** _…._**

****

**_(‘Whatever you are, can’t you see I’ve tried to post it! BUT I CAN’T. Please.. please… Can’t you just give me a break….’)_ **

She shouted the words silently in her head.

 **_(‘Please…_ ** _just **please!…. I can’t ask this of him… Don’t you get it’s too much? Asking him to participate in his own exploitation, he can’t even bare to read it… asking him to POST it, it’s just wrong.’)**_

****

But her internal wail falls on deaf ears… and maybe she’s sort of lying to herself… the chapter in question isn’t about Sam or even Dean. It’s about her… her in-laws… her past, guilts, fears, insecurities… her not exactly normal-ness.

Things she hardly has courage to ponder, examine or express, all spelled out in black and white.

And it scares her, she’s afraid of what it means, now it’s all written out like that.

Doesn’t want Sam to read it then look at her with pity or suspicion…

Not this week, while she’s dealing with her in-laws: knowing _one more thing_ she shouldn’t and is expected to keep secret from her husband …

The pain ratchets up a notch in her skull, halts her thoughts and spurs her to click on Sam’s name.

“Hi Sam.” She says the words softly in deference to her pounding skull and he looks at her from the other side of the world with a mile-wide smile, all white teeth, dimples and slanted eyes that light up like a happy retriever puppy.

That look, -just happy to see her- it warms her, after so much time as persona non-grata; it’s like Johnny’s smile when he sees her at the end of each school day ( _and oh!_ _how can this man not know he’s beautiful?)_

It also makes her feel unworthy, she’s not here for him, only here at all because he’s her call of last resort.

“Hey Michele, is everything okay?” He puts down the iPad he’s probably been using for research and gives her his full attention.

She’s at a loss on how to answer.

“No, n-o visions….” She stammered quietly, feeling each word like a dagger of glass grating inside her skull. Still felt the urge to run. 

Took a breath. _(‘What if he says no?’)_

“Sam I… I need your help, and I…know it’s a big ask …” she narrowed her eyes against the dim light her phone, cradled in her hand, and tried to collect her thoughts enough to put words together.

“I wouldn’t ask if I could think of any other way… _but I can’t_ ”

He frowned at that.

“Sure, what do you need.” He looked at her earnestly, willing to help.

Those small lines pinching his brow reminded her fleetingly of a WiFi symbol as she gathered her courage.

“I… I need you to h-Help me… post a chapter of my fic...” she rushed the final words and turned her eyes away from his image on the small screen, feeling like she was betraying him.

“... _please_ …” her last word is a lorn whisper as she felt the all-to-familiar wet heat slide down her top lip and tasted the metallic bloom of blood in her mouth. 

Raised a trembling hand to wipe it away.

Looks down at the phone in her hand, at Sam’s surprised eyes staring back. Waited for him to tell her to go to hell.

But he didn’t, because he’s a good man, someone who has spent most of his life trying to save others and never puts himself first.

And she hates that, but she’s grateful.

…ooo0ooo…

As Sam logs in to the fanfiction website using Michele’s details, it strikes him how easy it would be now, to delete every word she’d ever written about them. He glances guiltily at her pain clenched face from behind the fall of his hair; then abruptly turns his eyes back to what he’s doing, stops himself from staring at the blood on her lips and the wadded fistful of stained tissue in her hand.

The sight of her blood tugs at him like an accusation as he uploads the file into document Manager, noting that it’s Labelled ‘Chapter 76: Lead me not into temptation’, thinks it’s a weird name and runs his eye over previous chapter names wondering which moments of his life they reveal. Some are obvious, in an obscure way, “Lady in Red,” “Tell Merril to swing away”, even “Sympathy for the Devil.” But some are just weird, when has a ghost ever made a cup of tea? And what was with the fishing reference?

He glances furtively at her image on the screen again, as he restrains his curiosity and clicks the final button to post the chapter.

As he does, she makes a small breathless sound deep in the back of her throat, one that’s half purr, half gasp.  
“Ahhh Sammy, I could kiss you right now.” She breaths the words with a soft elated laugh. And it jolts him, _hard_ , his brain interpreting things completely wrong.

  
He imagines her blood smeared lips on his with a visceral flash that sends blood south. 

Feels almost shocked by his lack of control, struggles to swallow down and ignore the inappropriate physical response.

Thinks maybe both she and Dean might have a point. He’s reacting like a horny teenager, and needs to get laid!

But the thought of picking up some strange woman for a one-night stand, after everything that happened in Montauk (and his whole life) it leaves him cold.

“So, uh… 76 Chapters… that’s a lot ...” He fumbles awkwardly at normal conversation.

“Yes,” she looks uncomfortable, “I’m sorry Sam…asking that of you was… unfair. I know you hate it, guess that’s why it’s got the name ‘The Thing You Hate’.”  
She wiped the blood off her face carefully and tossed the tissues in the bin. “Not that I’m terribly fond of it either… cos you know, it’s _a bloody pain._ ” She gave him a rueful aborted shrug and winced at the movement.

“Still hurts? You should probably take something.”

“Can’t, maxed out. It’s fine.” Her voice held a subtle note of defensiveness that made him wonder how many pain meds she’d taken, and how long she’d waited before she called.

“Where’s Dean?”

“He’s on a date.”

Though ‘date’ was probably stretching the definition of Dean’s current activities with Carmen the waitress. Sam felt a measure of envy, though he told himself it had more to do with being left to research the case alone…

Considered, maybe, he wasn’t being totally honest, considering his current hair trigger reactions. (Spared a fleeting moment to wondering how Eileen was, then felt uneasy.)

Still, it had worked out for the best!

He was _glad_ he’d been here tonight; glad he had _finally_ done something that helped Michele; _and_ that he could look forward to a less irritable brother in the morning.

The corner of Michele’s mouth quirked up slightly and she looked like she was considering making some sort of smart comment, but let it wash by unspoken.

“So, you’re out on a case,” she asked instead. “What’s your monster of the week?”

“That’s what I’m trying to work out. This town has a history of disappearances right back to 1898, one a year every year ‘til ‘97, then nothing for 20 years… until this latest disappearance. We’ve got a witness that claims the thing that took his friend was Black Bill. According to local folklore, Black Bill is part man, part goat and lives in the woods, there’s a minor similarity to the Jersey devil. But there's a ton of human-animal hybrid lore dating all the way back to ancient Egypt.”

“So, everything from Anubis, to a mad science creation... or Mr Tumnus from ‘The Lion Witch and the Wardrobe’ is a suspect?” She teased lightly.

He smiled ruefully and raised an eyebrow, “huh… actually a faun or satyr isn’t a terrible fit.”

Keyed in a search.

“We’ve never come across one, but I mean, the world’s a big place. The victim disappeared from a local makeout spot in the woods during a party, which...” He glanced at the info on the screen. Read through it quickly and cleared his throat uncomfortably; turned the tablet decisively face down.

C.S Lewis’ Mr Tumnus was the G rated version apparently, Sam was _very sure_ he’d rather not have discussions about uncontrollable lust and massive orgies, with Michele tonight.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam walked back from the hall of records carrying a stack of files, mulling over the latest details of the case.

Barrett Bishop, Jr; local Sheriff, was markedly uninterested in doing anything real to investigate Jarrod Hayes disappearance.  
He was also owner of Billhook Meats, the meat packing plant _both_ Jarrod Hayes and Daryn Boston worked at (and last place Daryn was seen before he disappeared yesterday.)  
One of the few people that knew Daryn Boston claimed to have witnessed Hayes abduction _and_ was a person of interest in Sam and Dean’s investigation.  
Sheriff Barrett Bishop, Jr. Only son of the Bishop meat empire, an empire that founded Tomahawk and was in obvious in financial trouble (if the property sales and threats of plant closure were any indicator.) Sam can’t help but find the Sheriffs blase response and inaction, not only Jarrod’s disappearance but also the abuse _he knew_ Jarrod suffered as a child. _(‘_ _Jarrod's had it rough. Mom left years ago. And his dad...Well, let's just say Jarrod "fell down the stairs a lot," you know what I mean.’)_ worthy of mistrust. And he had a thing for taxidermy.  
There was no doubt in Sam’s mind that Sheriff Barrett Bishop, Jr. knew more than he was letting on about Black Bill.

Pushing open the dinner door he saw Dean, seated at the counter a burger already in front of him. The sight of the hunk of meat his brother was dousing in tomato ketchup turned Sam’s stomach. Reminded him of the beef carcasses hanging from hooks he’d seen at the meat packing plant, which in turn brought sickening flashbacks of the cage. How Lucifer had delighted in carving off chunks _of_ _Sam,_ hanging them up on hooks for show like that, or shoving the pieces down his gagging throat.

“Seriously? Dean? After what we just saw, how – how can you eat?”

That morning Dean had blanched at the description of a satyrs feeding habits, but here he was after close-up experience with skinned cow carcass … eating.

“Grow up, Sam, okay?” His brother shot him a _look_. Dean _never_ understood Sam’s dislike of red meat… after the demon blood and his time in the cage.  
“Burger's beef, bacon's pig…. Soylent Green is people.” And **_that_** hit way too close, Sam looked away as his brother continued, and swallowed back the urge to gag.  
“…But **this** – _this_... This is heaven.” Dean continued in diametric opposition to Sam’s thoughts, proceeding to scarf down his burger like a starving wolverine.

And _God_! Dean _really_ didn’t get it.

But Sam had never had the courage to explain… and really there was no need, it was _his_ issue not Dean’s and he had long ago schooled himself to man up and deal.

“Wow. Right. Um, so, uh, what's the word? You find anything?”

“Mm. Yeah, kind of. So, I cross-checked all the names of the people who went missing with the employee roster at Billhook Meats.”

“And? Any more of the vic’s work at the plant?”

“Try all of 'em.” Dean informed him with a flourish.

“All of 'em? _Seriously_? So, I guess that means, safe to say that, uh, Black Bill is definitely connected to the plant?”

“Yeah. Or the family that runs it. Or both. Well, maybe they just run an evil petting zoo on the side.” Sam smiled at his brother’s snark. Glanced away as Dean took another bite (watching Dean eat was rarely pretty.)

“So, I, uh, spent some time at the hall of records. The Bishops founded Tomahawk. Everything. This is a company town. If you lived here, you worked at the plant. The Bishops owned all the houses, all the businesses. Or they did until a few years ago. Looks like the sheriff has been selling off all of their family property. Uh, everything, really...”

“Hmm.” Dean nodded and continued eating looking thoughtful.

“ ...except for the plant and the family estate.” He laid out a few color copies he’d made of the Bishop Family estate. Dean looked them over.

“Wow. So, he lives at the Addam’s family house?”

Sam’s phone chimed, he pulled it out and checked it while Dean waited, a questioning look on his face.

“It's Mick.” Sam showed his brother the message ‘ _Just checking in.’_

“Okay. Tell him we're cool.”

Sent back ‘ _Fine. Working the case._ ’ and turned back to his brother.

“So creepy house?”

“Creepy house.” Dean agreed with a small nod.


	78. The flaw in waitin' 'em out

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 78: The flaw with waitin’ ‘em out**

Sam stood beside his brother surveying the basement room they’d found behind a quadruple locked door in the Bishop family house.

The main light had blown, but there was more than enough illumination to register that the walls were lined with sturdy, no nonsense items designed for processing meat.

Maybe you could pass those off as historic keepsakes, reminders of the Bishop Family business, the whole reason for the family fortune.  
But there was something decidedly un-museum-like about the space, it felt… utilitarian. Like a work room.

The main attraction stood in the middle of the room, and it _screamed_ of something far more sinister than a familial tendency towards hoarding old family implements. 

Shiny and functional, the metal table in the center of the space could only be described as something designed to hold a _person_. The way it tilted down towards a grated drain in the floor spoke of easy clean-up and deliberation. There was no doubt in Sam’s mind, people had died in this room.

A faint scent permeated the space, stoking Sam’s unease higher. Not a smell you’d expect in a basement; not damp or musty, not old meat and blood either, _that_ he could have anticipated in a room designed to kill and butcher humans. This was something else. Sharp, dry and musky, it lingered at the edge of his senses and spoke to his hunter instincts in a muted voice, of something dangerous and primal.

“Why is it always the rich ones? I mean, what, are they, like, ‘Croquet's all right. But you know what'd be great? Murder,’” Dean groused in disgust, looking around.

Sam wanted to argue that it wasn’t _always_ the rich ones. Opened his mouth to do just that, thinking of the inbred hillbilly Bender family they’d encountered years ago; but at that moment there was the sound of a door opening above them.

**....**

Sam kept his gun trained between the man’s eyes as he watched his brother disarm and shove the sheriff up against the wall.

“Talk.” Dean grated menacingly.

“This, this is not what it looks like.” The man stammered completely unresistant.

“Really?” Dean scoffed “'Cause it looks like a straight up murder room to me.”

The sheriff dragged his eyes off Dean, meeting Sam’s almost beseechingly.

“Sheriff, what's goin' on?” He asked tightly. He _really_ didn’t like the guy, but his reactions seemed off.

The sheriff looked frustrated “You’s... You’s won't believe me.”

“Try us. We're pretty open minded.” Dean muttered stepping back.

The sheriff took a breath raised his hands and made his way to a chair against the wall, “My family, we... got a secret.”

“All the best ones do.” Dean snarked drolly.

Sam sucked a breath, “Is this about Black Bill?”

“No. I mean, yeah, but...he's not real. Black Bill, he's...us.”

“Come again?”

“Uh... Growing up, my father'd tell me stories about a monster. Lived under our house and made our family rich. All we had to do was – was feed it.”

“Feed it what?” Sam demanded clarification. Though really, considering what was in front of them, the chances were _damn good_ it wouldn’t be cabbage.

“Blood. Human blood.”

Sam glanced across at Dean, noticing a weird look on his face and he wondered if his brother was reminded of Sam’s past demon blood addiction.  
‘ _Past! That was in the past, Dean!’_ … he wanted to argue. But then, he felt a small guilty rush of shame, reminded suddenly of the dream he’d had of Michele, a mug, and a knife, in the bunker’s kitchen.

“My dad, his dad, and all the way back, they'd go out and grab some poor son of a bitch, bring 'em here and... when they did it, they wore a mask. Black Bill...We made him up.”

Both brothers frowned.

“So, goat dude is just a dude?” Dean pouted slightly, as if disappointed.

“Then who's the monster?” Sam wondered aloud. Had the Bishop family been keeping a Vampire in the basement or something more exotic?

“Moloch.”

Sam raised an eyebrow in surprise. Moloch was a name he knew, an old name, biblically old.

“God of sacrifice,” the sheriff continued.

“What, I'm sorry. You – you have a _god_ living in your basement?”

“Yeah, one of my people way back, they bound Moloch, locked him away... Starved him. My family, that's what we did. We let the god get so hungry that he'd do anything for blood. Moloch used his power to make us rich. After my father died in '97, I put a stop to all of that.  
Look, I couldn't...I never killed anybody.

I just wanted to help people, to make up for all the bad we've done. I wanted... To leave a legacy.”

“Well, aren't you just a peach?!”

“So, what happened to Moloch?”

“I kept him locked up. Hoped he'd starve to death.”

“Locked up where?”

Sheriff Bishop looked over and gestured at the grating under the end of the tilted metal slaughter table.

Sam made his way over, pulling a flashlight out of his pocket, and crouched gingerly.

Noted how the sharp musky smell was definitely coming from the hole under the grating. Peered down into the darkness with his heart in his throat, expecting any moment for some kind of _thing_ to come lunging up at the rusty iron bars.  
They’d seen god’s before, mostly they looked human, but after 20 years of starvation the mask was bound to have slipped. Sam had seen behind a mad archangel’s mask… Could a mad pagan god be worse?

But nothing lunged up out of the darkness, the cage was both intact and empty.

“It's empty.”

“What?” The sheriff demanded.

“It's empty.” Sam told him again.

The Sheriff stood, “No, no. No, no, no, no, no.” He argued in disbelief.

Suddenly there was a sound from the house above.

“Stay here. Keep an eye on him.” Dean ordered shortly.

“What?! Dean, there could be a god up there!” Sam argued.

“I'm cool.” Dean raised the Colt meaningfully in answer to his objection and turned to ascend the stairs and investigate.

…ooo0ooo…

“Thanks Shell.” Michele nodded and hefted the last of the boxes of books up, to the guy she affectionately called her brother-out-law; she watched her sister-laws partner settle the box amongst the growing pile of boxes already on the Ute’s flatbed and wiped the film of sweat from her face, wrinkling her nose at the smell of smoke on her hands, not the clean woodfire smoke smell; the burnt garbage stench of house-fire smoke.

“All these boxes really reek Ted; please tell me they’re not going _inside_ the new house.”

“Yeah, nah. They’re relegated to the shed with the Harley. I _tried_ to tell Meg’s and the girls to just turf ‘em, but… well, you know how it is— What Meg’s wants, Meg’s gets. They’ll sit round in the shed for a year, then I’ll biff them to the tip on the QT, none of ‘em will care by then. No biggie.”

“The idiots guide to Chadwick’s: Wait them out…” Michele huffed a sigh. “I’m not sure I’m equipped for that,” muttered feeling dark and moody and thinking of the cancer discussion she’d tried to have with her father-in-law the previous evening.  
It had answered a few of her questions, but _still_ left her with a gag order and an uneasily feeling that if she didn’t break her word, the first thing her husband might know of his father’s cancer diagnosis could be a phone call telling him his father had died. 

Michele knew it was Ray’s right to choose… but it was just so… completely stupid!

Ted smiled enigmatically, unaware his companions worries. “Ko te manawanui he iti noa te wa e korero ai. He wa roa ke te ako.” He declaimed ponderously, doing his best Maori sage impersonation.

“And that means?” Michele set a hand on her hip giving her not-brother-in-law a sceptical look. Ted often made up completely crap statements in Te Reo and passed them off as priceless proverbs handed down generation to generation by his Maori forbearers. It was actually something Michele really liked about the guy.  
In a world where PC ran wild, Ted was a down to earth Maori bloke that knew how to laugh at both himself and the world.

“That one’s not actually bullshit Shell’s. It’s one of my Aunty Manu’s fav’s ‘Patience – manawanui- not only takes a long time to say. It takes a long time to learn.’”

Michele grinned “I like it! So… what next… more boxes?”

“I could murder a beer!”

“Megan sa-id no one gets beer until all the boxes for the shed are in the shed.” She reminded him gravely.

“Ko te oranga o te pononga he mamae.”

Michele rolled her eyes “You know, it says in the bible that you should only use a gift of tongues if you interpret what you say.”

“It’s not ‘tongues’ if it’s the lingo of the land, Pakeha oppressor.”

“Calling me your oppressor would probably be more convincing if I wasn’t lugging _your_ boxes of stinky books.”

“Technically they’re Meg’s stinky books.” He disagreeed, “She’s oppressing the both of us. It translates as ‘What I do for love’.” Ted jumped down from the Ute and headed for the shed at the front of the house to retrieve more boxes.

Michele hurried after him “Nuh uh, liar! Love is aroha. Mamae means pain.” She argued.

Her sister-in-law’s partner stopped, tipping his head back and laughed. “Yeah okay. What I _said_ was ‘a slave’s life is pain.’” He turned and patted her on the head like she was kid, or a dog that had done a particularly clever trick, then strode on towards the house, his work boots splashing muddy water as he stomped through a puddle.

Michele stopped, pouting at the man’s retreating back in irritation. She was sure it had everything to do with her height. But, no matter what she did, people always seemed to treat her with a sort of affectionate dismissal. She just wished occasionally, people would treat her seriously.

As if an answer to the request, a vision struck like a bolt of lightning on a clear day.

***

The light is red and uncertain. 

The air hazy in a way that reduces visibility.  
A taint of blood thrums uneasily in the air and for a moment, Michele is reminded sickeningly of those half-shared Hell memories she glimpsed when Dean had beaten the siren to death. 

_(‘Is this real or a dream? Is it one of Dean’s nightmares?’)_

At the thought of Dean, the vision refocuses, showing him to her.

But that only makes things more confusing.

Dean sits in a wheely desk chair in the middle of the oddly foggy red lit room.

He’s _tied_ to the chair with what looks like plastic cling wrap.

_(‘Huh? Red light. A Winchester tied in glad wrap? Is this a dream, a nightmare, or one of Cougars scary smutt fics?’)_

Dean looks decidedly unhappy to be there.

So, chances are this is real, or will be.

He’s breathing in stifled pants. His breath mists like wherever this is, it’s _cold_.

Dean’s eyes are wide, flicking around his surroundings like he’s searching for something or scared.

Everything is so -red- in the weird lighting, it takes her a while to register that there’s blood trailing sluggishly down Dean’s neck, soaking into the collar of his jacket. It’s coming from an abrasion behind his ear; not life threatening, but it sends a spike of possessive outrage through her, reminiscent of turning up at school and finding Johnny with a new bruise or scrape _that hadn’t been there when she dropped him off_. 

A need to know who did it, why, and if they aren’t sorry, a need to make them be, swells inside her. The depth of the emotion is surprising and a bit shocking.

_(‘Where’s Sam, where’s Sam, where’s Sam…. ‘)_

Michele is unsure if those thoughts are hers or Dean’s. Sam and Dean are a pair, one in trouble and without the other is just wrong! So, the wanting to know is like the background hum of that motor somewhere close by.

_“Pete’s got the Colt. I’m Saran wrapped to a frickin wheely chair, slotted to be a god’s liquid lunch. ‘Power in the blood’ ain’t ‘_ interesting’ _if you’re the source.”_

Dean’s thoughts puncture through into her mind like a focused blast, it’s almost like he’s yelling at her.

_(‘Great okay, but **where** are you Dean? Details!’)_ it’s a desperate query, one that goes unanswered by Dean as he tenses like he’s heard something and scoots the chair towards the wall. 

Michele feels urgency clench inside her, and tries to focus on the details surrounding Dean, before she loses the vision.

It’s cold, that would be a clue in April in small town _New Zealand_ , but Sam said it was snowing last they talked. So, it’s likely cold pretty much everywhere.

It tugs at her that she _should_ know this…. Metal shelving racks, the hum of a motor close by…. cold

And then it hits her. Dean’s in a walk-in freezer, like they used to store the samples and media in back at her old work, back when she was the girl in a lab coat, back when life was simple.

***

The vision spits her out and Michele finds herself kneeling on wet gravel beside the muddy puddle. Staring down into it, panting as her blood drips and is swallowed up by the muddy water.

“Dean,” she mutters pushing past the pain and fumbles for her phone.

…ooo0ooo…

The minutes since Dean had walked up the stairs, ticked by slowly.

Sam waited tensely trying to listen to his brother’s progress above, trying to isolate any other sounds that could indicate something else was pursuing him.

Suddenly: thumps, impacts, something breaking, an aborted yell that could have only been Dean’s.

“Dean?” the yell forces its way out, as he races for the stairs to go to his brother’s aid.

Above him, the basement door slams shut.

…ooo0ooo…

“What?!” Sam’s voice was harsh in Michele’s ear.

“Sam! Dean is, will be, locked in a walk-in freezer. He thinks a _god’s_ going to eat him, and someone called Pete has the Colt.”

Sam’s breathing hisses sharply in her ear. “Okay.” There is a splintering sound of impact that makes her flinch, then silence.

….

“Bloody hell, Shell! Are you, all right?” Michele felt a hand fall on her shoulder and flinches, looking up into her sister-in-law’s brown eyes as she is pulled to her feet.

“Phil said you were getting nose bleeds and migraines, but I didn’t think…  
You’re covered in blood … you should have _never_ let me boss you into lugging those boxes…” Megan chides, wrapping an arm firmly around Michele and leading her, unresistingly into the half gutted kitchen. Depositing her into a chair, then cooing and clucking like a mother hen, cleaned away the blood.

Michele finally collected herself enough to reassure her sister-in-law, that _really,_ it looked _much_ worse than it was and she was really and truly fine!

**_Honestly!_ **

It took her five more minutes to convince Megan that she could sit at the kitchen counter and wrap plates and glasses with newspaper, and pack them into a box without beginning to leak blood, pass out or burst into flames.

….

For Michele, the next hour dragged by tortuously.

She only really felt like she could breathe again once her phone made that weird chiming noise, and Dean’s name popped up.

“Please tell me you and Sam are both still in one piece.” She breathed weakly into the phone, glad everyone else was pulling apart the master bedroom furniture and carrying pieces out to be loaded onto the truck (a job Megan had decreed unwise for her ailing little sister-in-law).

“Course we are!   
I’m wounded by your lack of faith.” Dean answered pretending cocky outrage, but the edges of his voice sounded tired and brittle.

Michele took a long breath, what she wanted, all she wanted, was to be sure he was fully okay.   
But of course, Dean wouldn’t give her a straight answer, he’d do the macho, bullshit, man of steel routine. It was so frustrating!

“I _have_ faith and it’s _your actual_ wounds I’m worried about.”

She continued softer, “Dean, last I ‘saw’ you; you were bleeding from a head wound and tied up in cling wrap in a walk-in freezer, thinking you were going to be eaten by something.” She wasn’t going to call whatever it was a god, there was only one God! “So, I’m worried about concussion and frost bite and you know … chunks missing. It’s good to see your male macho and deflection skills aren’t damaged... But I worry okay?”

“Me and the _god_ Moloch had a bit of a punch up, had the added bonus of keeping me nice and toasty warm, while I waited for Sammy to turn up, like my knight in shining armour. He ganked the sonofabitch with the Colt.   
Really Mitch you missed all the good stuff. Me getting some licks in. Sammy standing there with the Colt, hair flowing in the breeze as he took the shot. The horn headed sonofabitch lighting up from the inside out an’ dropping like a sack of meat. Fucking beautiful!”

She heard a disgusted huff from somewhere close by that could only be Sam.

“So, he didn’t call you a moron this time huh? Not like when he saved you from the ghoul?”

Dean grunted in surprise, “He told you ‘bout that?” He sounded oddly vulnerable.

“Nope.” she let the last syllable slide between her lips with a pop. “My point is, you don’t need to brush it off or treat it like a joke. It’s his _job_ to save you, just as much as it’s _your_ job to save him. Just like I’m built to worry about people I care about. Don’t be all… weird about it. Okay?

You should… get something warm to drink. Can I? Can I talk to Sam please?”

“You’re transparent Mitch.”

“What can I say, it’s a Mum thing. I worry about you both. I won’t say it’s my job, but I can’t help it. And… Hey … I do think you’re worth it.”

Another grunt, “Sam, tell her I’m fine will ya.”

“Hey… he’s fine.”

“You checked him for frostbite and concussion?”

“He’s got some scrapes and a nice crop of bruises, but he’s good.”

“And you?”

Sam hummed in the back of his throat, “I’m fine too.” There was a smile in his voice “And thanks…”

“You…” she stopped herself. She’d been going to tell him he was family and Family didn’t have to say Thank you, then realised that was probably overstepping boundaries. “Umm, like I told Dean I worry about you both, but you’re worth it. If you really want to thank me, stay out of trouble for a little while. My nerves are frayed enough dealing with my in-laws.” She’d been going for joking but some of the stress of the past days bled into her voice and made it raw.

“Are _you_ okay?” Sam’s question made her eyes burn.

“No, not really Sam.” She took a breath, “but it’s not you guys honest, it’s just… normal family stuff. I’m just… I just, _want to go home._ ”

“That’s happening tomorrow right?”

“Yeah.” She took a breath, “Now go pour something warm down your brother, huh?”

“Okay, we’re just about done here. And Michele… I dunno but… if you ever… want to talk… or vent or whatever… Even if it’s about that ‘normal family stuff’… I…” Sam cleared his throat, “I don’t totally suck at listening?” he finished, the offer sounding oddly young and uncertain in a way that reminded her suddenly of Dean’s thoughts a while back, that Sam hadn’t had many friends growing up.

“Thank you, Sam.” She spoke the words gravely, “and Thank you for getting rid of another false god, if it really was Moloch... he was biblical… people sacrificed their _children_ to him for like a thousand years… don’t tell Dean, but I can’t help thinking that ridding the world of _that_ is better than killing Hitler.”

Sam huffed in her ear. “Sure, don’t worry I won’t. He went on about that one for _months_.   
Pretty bizarre to contemplate though isn’t it? Something that … possibly walked the earth in the bronze age?”

“Yeah…”


	79. Take me Home

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 79: Take me Home**

Phillip Chadwick carried a cup of coffee into the bedroom to find his wife already up, dressed and packing.   
He felt a prickle of irritation at the sight of her kneeling there on the floor efficiently packing both their suitcases, so damned eager to get away from his family.

He’d hoped the trip would fix things between Michele and his Dad, after the nightmare at Christmas last year. The way Michele’s eyes hold echoes of that Phil Collins song “I can feel it coming in the air tonight” whenever they slide over Raymond Chadwick isn’t right.

Until the last few days his parents hadn’t seemed aware of Michele’s lingering displeasure.

It’s hard to see if you don’t know her subtleties, his wife is always soft spoken, helpful and polite towards his folks. That hasn’t changed.

It’s not what she says, it’s what she doesn’t. When his Dad’s in the room there’s a poised reserve to everything she does, she never truely relaxes.

She hasn’t mentioned the Christmas incident, not after she said her piece on the day it happened; she just never leaves Johnny or Chris alone in a room with his parents.

Instead of fixing things, this trip seems to have increased the tension. He’s caught sharp loaded looks from his parents, the way his parents look at Michele has changed somehow. It makes him think something happened while he was away installing Meg’s alarm, and no one’s tell him about it … That bugs him.

He’d been a clueless idiot after the twins were born, hadn’t realised their mother was screwing round and making a fool of him; hints of secrets make him edgy and irritable, make him feel like his skin is two sizes too small.

His parents have always gone by the knowledge is power philosophy. What ever it is, they won’t admit anything. But Michele, she’s always told him _everything_. Michele hates secrets, she calls them lies of omission. 

From the night stand Michele’s phone chimes with a message, and the way she smiles when she hears it, the eager way she reaches for it, that just BUGS him too.

“Is that the criminal transvestite?” He asks with a bite to his tone he usually doesn’t let slip.

Michele looks up at him from where she knelt looking at her phone, and pouted.

“I wish you’d stop calling Sam that.”

_“And I wish he’d stop calling my wife. But we’re both out of luck.”_ It’s a subvocal grumble, not meant to be heard.

His wife frowns.

“Do you have a problem with my fan-fic friends, or just Sam?” She looks put out as she blows a breath through her fringe.

Crap! He hadn’t meant to start a fight, but his mouth keeps right on, without his permission.

“Problem? No problem, I just think grown men should have better things to do.”

Blowing out another breath, she rewords the question again. “Is your problem Supernatural, fan-fiction or Sam, being a guy.”

It’s the same thing she does with Johnny, voice all mild and soft, hunting for the cause of one of the kid’s meltdowns.

“ ** _I_** don’t have a problem. Guy doesn’t have a girlfriend. Lives with his ‘brother.’ Spends his free time talking to my wife. No, I’ve got no problem.” He bites out. He’s not an autistic kid, and it pisses him off when she plays behaviour detective on him.

Michele frowns, climbing to her feet and crosses the room to stand in front of him head tilted.

“So… I’m trying to work this out… do you think Sam’s gay?” She smiles up at him affectionately, like she finds him amusing and rather silly. “...Or are you worried he’s not… Because you know… what Sam is or isn’t, is sort of irrelevant.  
I’m like Johnny. Takes me _forever_ to decide what I want. But when I do, that’s it! World without end amen!”

And she has a point. He’s chased and caught plenty of easy women before he met his wife.

Chasing her for a challenge, trying for another notch on his belt, ended somewhere he hadn’t expected.  
Michele’s morals are like death, taxes and gravity. It took three years of frustration, changing and becoming a better man. Lots of getting acquainted with his right hand. Then a ring. And _still_ he had to wait until after the wedding, (not that he’s ever regretted it.)

Besides, this Sam guy’s in America, and he has to be pretty lame; gay or straight, if he’s reading Supernatural. He knows it’s a book series that inspires more gay porn than an explosion in a sausage factory.

Michele leans up and kisses him then, just a feather light brush of lips, but it sends a curl of warmth to the pit of his stomach, washing away most of his jealousy and irritation. 

“If you must know, that message was a _review_ ,” she tilts her head and smirks teasingly, “…on the chapter Sam, who _isn’t_ to my knowledge gay, and is _quite_ capable of picking up women in his own country, if he wants, helped me by posting…”

She breaths out slowly, and her shoulders slumped a little. “You know Phil, it might have escaped your notice… but being the Mother of kids like Johnny and Chris it’s 24/7, 365 days a year and doesn’t leave much room for adult contact, with people that aren’t therapists or specialists.

Peaches, Cat, Cougar, Nic, Sam and his brother… they fill some of that gap for me. It keeps me sane, when it’s not sane. Writing, it isn’t…”

She bites her lip and looks sad, wrinkling up her nose like she’s telling herself to quit while she‘s ahead.

“It’s _supposed_ to be possible to post a story from my phone… I just can’t work out ho-wwww.” Her slight whine combines with one of her helpless little girl looks and does what it always does to him. It’s a knee jerk reaction, makes him want to fix any and everything for her, when she looks at him like that. He wants to be her hero, a better man.

“Give me your phone, I’m sure I can work it out.”

She hugs him happily, with a, ‘yes please,’ and, ‘thank you’ spoken warm against his neck.

Combined as it is with the press of her breasts against his chest and the citrus scent of her shampoo, it reminds him, tonight they’ll finally be home, in their own bed, _without a two-year-old roommate (_ until his usual 1am visitation _.)_

That makes him _damn_ eager to leave his old hometown, and take his wife home.

As he turns his attention to her phone and the fan-fiction website, and Michele goes back to packing, it occurs to him that figuring out how to help his wife post stories from her phone has two benefits. It will make her happy, and when she’s happy his wife gives mind-blowingly good back massages, and other blowing activities, best _not_ done in a room with a two-year-old.

And secondly, she won’t need to get help from that Magnum PI wannabe, to publish her stories in the future.

…ooo0ooo…

The drive home was notably quiet. Dean actually let Sam drive the first leg without any argument, he just folded himself into the passenger side of the Impala without a word, holding a vacuum-sealed lump of thawing steak to his face.

He fell into a fitful doze before Tomahawk even cleared the rear-view, which wasn’t surprising. He’d driven to Tomahawk without giving up the wheel, then spent an ‘awesome night,’ with that blonde waitress, (if Dean was to be believed about his exploits, that hadn’t involved much actual sleep.) Then he’d been knocked out, locked in a freezer and gone a few rounds with a god.

Dean had been busy, and even his stamina had an end point.

So, Sam settled his long limbs into the driver’s seat of the impala and enjoyed the unspooling rumble of the old cars engine as she ate up the night-time miles. 

He just let his brother sleep, and found a quiet contentment in the fact that Dean had let him do what was needed, without making a big deal out of it, for once.

  
Every hour or so he did his due diligence; nudged Dean, and roused him enough to check his brain was intact and not turning to soup inside of his thick skull.  
Dean’d wipe his drool, grumpily answer the stock questions, grumble and shuffle himself around like an old dog, then settle back into oblivion, breathing thick and open mouthed, just this side of snoring.  
Dean was Dean, it wasn’t particularly appealing a lot of the time; but Sam took a simple comfort from it none the less.

…ooo0ooo…

Michele stared pensively out the passenger window at the world flowing past.

The journey back home was shaping up to be a long one, in a car filled with the noise of 4 energetic kids…. and a weighted silence from the driver’s seat, that spoke volumes.

Her in-laws had decided that 2 minutes before their son and his family hit the road for home was the perfect time to lay out his father’s cancer diagnosis.

That and the fact that his wife had known for days and hadn’t told him. 

There’d been a short, hissed conversation between husband and wife over the revelation, before they’d got to the car and loaded up the kids, but nothing more, (the children and the rest of the family _still_ weren’t supposed to be in the loop. They’d only told Phil because they didn’t trust Michele to keep her trap shut.)

So now the whole thing lay between them like an exposed nerve.

Michele glanced sideways at her husband’s face, trying to work out what was going on inside her man’s head. She wanted to be mad at her in-laws for dropping her in it like that, leaving her the only person responsible for dealing with the repercussions and her husbands worries. But it was one less secret she has to carry around. Or at least one less she had to hide from the man she loves.

Her life is becoming defined by the secrets she keeps.

The ones she kept from her husband weighed heaviest right now.  
That her friend Sam wasn’t all she let Phillip believe.

That the world contains supernatural things, and that she is shaping up to be one of them.

That her health issues are a symptom of a much bigger … thing.

The tension in her husband’s shoulders and the hurt set of his mouth reminded her of unavoidable facts.   
Secrets rarely stay buried forever and there is nothing uglier than a secret once it has been exposed to the light.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam was flagging by the time Dean’s sleep tank was topped off, he’d been only too glad when his brother ordered him to pull over at the next gas station, then demanded the keys.  
Glad to allow Dean to take control and trade back to the passenger seat.

Those times when Dean was willing to relinquish the wheel were oddly satisfying, but both of them were reassured by the return to the status quo.

Sam was glad to rest his head against leather seat, still warm from his brother’s body and close his eyes, knowing without a doubt that Dean would get them the rest of the way home.

…ooo0ooo…

They stopped for petrol and lunch at a park in Ohakune, the home of the giant carrot.  
The sun felt good on Michele’s face as she sat on the park bench, watching the twins push their little brothers on the swings, while Phillip hunted coffee in a nearby cafe.  
The sight of the four of her kids, playing together, loving each other… They are such good kids; no matter what anyone might think, the four of them are the best thing she’ll leave, if or when her lightbulb blows.  
The thought made her throat tighten and her eyes burn as she watched them. How on earth could she be worthy of what she’d been given?

  
Johnny leaned backwards on the swing to make sure she was still there and watching, let go to wave and nearly fell off – But his big sister caught him.  
The boy hooted in delight and leaped all the way off the swing into his sister’s arms, both children fell to the ground in a slow motion theatrical tumble, became a laughing heap of flailing limbs as a tickle fight commenced, the toddler and the other twin joined in moments later.

“They’re going to be alright. No matter what happens in the end, they’ll be okay.” She told herself out loud, trying desperately to hold onto that belief.

Phil returned and settled beside her. Handed over a capachino while sipping his own.

“I knew something was up,” he informed her after a while, “didn’t know what, but knew there was something.”

“I’m sorry... he asked me not to tell… and I felt like I had to honour his wishes. If I hadn’t answered the phone I’d never have known...” She felt weirdly bitter over circumstances.

_(‘Just like I’d never have known I was writing things that were true if Sam hadn’t seen my fic and messaged me.’)_

It could drive you mad, all the what if’s and could have beens.

“The scan’s on Thursday, it’ll give them a better idea of how bad it is. Till then we wait and pray,”she offered softly.

“Yeah,” he nodded and stared focusedly towards the kids, breathing shallow through his teeth, rubbed his knuckles and wedding ring backwards and forwards against his lips restlessly.

Michele followed his eyes, Chris was now chasing the other three round the play area with a stick, yelling, ‘ie, ‘ie, ‘ie,’ and cackling like a loon.

Without taking her eyes off the kids, she slipped an arm round her husband’s waist and pulled him close.

He let out a ragged breath and mashed his face against her hair breathing deep like he’d run a race.

She held him for a long time and waited without saying a word.

“My wife… always the first to know everything.” He joked roughly, finally pulling away and offering her a hand up.

“Not everything,” she muttered.

“Pity, I’d love to win lotto. Could you see us as millionaires?”

“We’d spoil them rotten,” she gestured across at the kids. “But we have everything we need, so please take me home. Seriously, I feel like I haven’t slept for a week… your parents spare bed, shiesh… I’m sure it was designed to make sure no one overstays their welcome.”

Her husband chuckled darkly, “I’ll take you home _and_ get you into bed.” He swatted her butt as he moved past her. “KIDS TIME TO GO,” he yelled, “early to bed for everyone when we get home!”

  
…ooo0ooo…

Dean elbowed Sam awake as they pulled up to the bunker. “Sammy we’re here.”

Sam pushed hair out of his eyes blearily and watched his brother climb out of the impala looking more bowlegged than usual. Dean stretch mightily and walked over to unlocked the garage tunnel entrance. Navigating the turns into the garage one handed, Dean pulled the car into her usual space, then looked over.

“Know what Pete said while he was monologuing like a third-rate villain at the plant, said the Bishop family business was, ‘hunting people and killing.’”

Sam grimaced, thinking how that was pretty much the antithesis of “Saving people and hunting things,” something Dean had labelled as being the Winchester Family business.

“I know, right?” Dean agreed with Sam’s unspoken thoughts, as they made their way into the bunker and dumped their duffels.

“The Sheriff, he _was_ trying, Dean.”

Dean shrugged as they clomped down the stairs, and dropped the weapons bag on the map table with a thud, rubbed his head like it was still hurting.  
“Hey.”

“Yep?” Sam responded easily, as they made a bee line library without consultation.

“Next time you hear me say that our family is messed up. Remind me, that we could be psycho goat people.”

Sam couldn’t help laughing. “Yeah, that's true enough.”

Dean opened the mini fridge and fished out two beers, Sam pulled up a chair as Dean ambled back over to join him, his face unusually thoughtful.

“You know, I was... thinking about what Bishop said. About...” waved his hand trying to encompass Sheriff Bishop’s talk of making amends and family legacies. “What do you think our legacy's gonna be?” He dropped the beer bottles to the table looking uncharacteristically pensive.

Sam shook his head, phased by his brother’s question.

“When we're gone,” Dean clarified, twisted off the caps of their beers, seating himself opposite. “I mean… after all the stuff we've done… you think folks will remember us? You know, like, a hundred years from now?” Dean rolled his eyes as if to minimise the words he’d just spoken.  
Sam figured his brother must have been ruminating on things pretty hard while he slept. They weren’t questions Dean, typically a man of action, showed any interest in.

Sam looked down at the beer cap in his palm, “No.” he answered honestly.

Dean looked away as if wounded, “Oh, that's nice.” He huffed.

“Well, I mean... Guys like us, we're not exactly the type of people they write about in history books, you know?”

“Mm.” Dean grunted.

As he looked at his brother’s discontent, it hit Sam like a speed wobble.  
His big brother still, after all these years wanted to be the hero, like in the comic books. Yearning and seeking approval with what he did. Dean was _still_ their father’s small soldier trying so hard, yet never getting noticed. It tore at him somewhere deep inside, to realise that, but he also wouldn’t lie to Dean, not about this.

“But, the people we saved, they're our legacy. And they'll remember us.” He continued and hoped that was enough for his brother. For him it was. They were so different in these things, Sam couldn’t be sure. There were moments for him when the thought of being forgotten and nothing - was actually comforting, like all his mistakes could be washed away, “…and then I guess...we’ll eventually fade away, too. That's fine, because we left the world better than we found it, ya know.”

Dean looked away, but his eyes had lost their pained aspect as they roved around the bunker and his thoughts journeyed on unspoken for a while.

“I wonder what's gonna happen to this place. After we're gone, you think some hunter'll move in, keep fightin' the fight?”

Sam smiled, “Yeah, I hope so.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

The silence stretched again, and Sam sipped at his beer.

Suddenly Dean set down his bottle decisively, reached into his pocket for his knife, flicked it open and gouged it into the table with a satisfied smile.

Sam sat forward with a puzzled frown, “What are you doin'?”

Dean started to carve into the table. “Leaving our mark.” He stated with grim satisfaction. He engraved ‘D.W’ deeper into the wood with a smile. “Here!” he tossed Sam the knife.

Sam lay cuts into the wood beside his brothers. Carving his initials like this took Sam back, to being 4 or 5 and completely gutted about leaving yet another town. He’d wailed against Dean’s chest, pounded with his too-small fists at the wall of his brother’s flesh, shrieking, “Why can’t we be like everyone else? Why can’t we have a home? I won’t know anybody, Dean! No one cares, It’s like we aren’t even…” concepts and thoughts that had been too big for him to express back then, and had just ended up coming out as, “Why, why, why?!”

He remembered how, long after his tears had stopped, Dean had pulled out a knife and had led him to do the most sacrilegious thing, ever.

They’d carved their initials deep into that back panel of the impala.

“This is us, Sammy, you an’ me. Okay? You got me an’ I gots you. And this is ours! That’s what home is little brother.”  
God they’d both been so young! …and Dad had tanned both their hides when he found out what they’d done a week later.

Of course, he had.

But their initials had stayed… and now, Sam guesses they’ll stay on the table in the library too.

_“This is us, Sammy. You an’ me. Okay? You got me an’ I gots you. And this is ours! That’s what home is little brother.”_


	80. Just how it goes

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 80: Just how it goes**

“You look tired.”

Michele shrugged, “It was a long week Sam … maybe not by Winchester standards. But—“ she lifted a hand to brush back her hair, and her sleeve slipped back, revealing a ring of bruises around her wrist.

The sight hit him with a spike of rage.

“What happened to your arm?!” He demanded sharply cutting her off.

She examined the bruises ringing her wrist without surprise. “Oh…” She murmured mildly.

“Who did that to you?!”

Michele’s eyes snapped up to meet his through the screen with a startled expression. “Ummm probably Phil, last night. But seriously Sam it’s no big deal...” she said, looking down to examining her wrist again.

She has Pearl Jam’s, ‘Better man’ in her playlist. He should have known!

“No big deal?! He hurt you. That’s not okay.” He fumed wanting to reach out, lift her chin, and make her meet his eyes, get her to see it _was_ a big deal, especially to him. He wants to use his fist to pound that message into the man who put those marks onto her skin.

Michele’s laugh jolted his train of thought. “Sammy I love you very much, but seriously, stop for a second. This,” she raised her arm, “isn’t domestic abuse, or what ever you think it is. It isn’t. This is just how it goes, when you have the symptoms of a bleeding disorder without the actual disorder to go with it. Do I _really_ need to give you a lecture on deficiencies in blood clotting factors and platelets?”

“That doesn’t explain…”

“Sex Sam.” Deans voice came from the doorway, interrupting.

“What?” He growled, shooting his brother a pissed off look.

“She’s got another hickey as well, Sam. It’s always the quiet ones that like a bit of rough with their smooth.” Dean leered, sniggered and received a snort of derision in response from Michele; “seriously Mitch, he’s a smart dude, I don’t get where I went wrong.” Dean continued. “Just as well you’re not the girl next door and we’re on the no-fly list, or Sammy here mighta gone all Liam Neeson on Mr Hobbit’s ass.”

Dean clapped him on the back and squeezed his shoulder, hard. A subtle demand to stand down.

Michele’s cheeks flushed. “Your brother’s right about most of it, Sam. But I don’t like it rough thank-you-very-much-Dean.” She gave his brother an exasperated look, before gazing back at Sam with softer eyes. “I just bruise easy these days, that’s all, okay?”

“You’re a delicate petal Mitch, tell that husband of yours to wrap you in bubble wrap first, next time.” Dean chuckled darkly, and Sam knew the next thing to come out of his brother’s mouth was going to be something vulgar, he elbowed Dean hard in the gut receiving a satisfying, “Oof” for his efforts.

“You’re _such_ a hypocrite Sam! You two commit domestic abuse on each other _all the time.”_

“He was asking for it.”

“Bet Mitch was asking for it too.” Dean answered lecherously, “‘Cause married people have sex, lots of sex, more sex than me, definitely more sex than you little brother. Because Mitch here likes sex and thinks it’s fu-n.” Dean quoted tauntingly, with an evil laugh, before mussing Sam’s hair.

“Seriously Dean, what are you like 12?!” he huffed exasperated, hunching his shoulders and ducking his head to hide his face.

Dean laughed mockingly, but beat a hasty retreat to the map-table with the weapons bag, before he could perpetrate another act of domestic abuse in retaliation.

“Your brother’s as good at quoting me verbatim as another green-eyed boy I know.” Michele shook her head ruefully and smiled. “And just like Johnny he pretends he isn’t listening when he is.”

….

The sound of a door opening close by made Michele look round at someone off screen with a smile. “You forgot your lunch.” She called brightly.

“Yeah, I realized that after my first job, thought I’d come home and pick it up. Hate for you to think I don’t appreciate it and stop making lunch for me.

You’d probably divorce me for mangling the gladwrap after a week. Want a coffee?” A man’s voice replied good naturedly.

“Yes please. Hey, look what you did to me last night.” She held up her arm.

“Bloody hell!” The man strode into the shot looking upset, “should you be calling the specialist? I didn’t mean… does it hurt?” He sounded horrified.

Michele tilted her head and met Sam’s eyes through the screen, her lips quirked slightly, as if asking if he was satisfied.

“Relax it’s normal. Sam’s brother says you need to wrap me in bubble wrap before playing with me in future.”

“Hmm, I _can_ see you doing a Farrah Fawcett.”

Across the room Sam heard his brother make an amused sound, Michele however just looked confused.

“She was one of Charlie’s angels, posed for Playboy wearing nothing but bubble wrap.” Her husband explained. “You wearing nothing but bubble wrap sounds like _lots_ _of fun!_ Two excellent forms of stress relief in one package. Jessica Jones’ brother may be a genius.”

“I’d love to say he didn’t mean it that way, _but he probably did_.

Quit being grubby and fetch me a coffee, male. You’re interrupting my Skype call. No one needs to hear your weird fantasies.” Michele chided blushing.

“Of course, your redhead needs to hear! I’m helping her write better smut. It’s a public service.”

Across the room Dean made a choking sound.

“It’s not Cougar! I’m talking with Sam and don’t call him Jessica Jones.”

“Why?” Michele’s husband bent over her shoulder and stared into the webcam challengingly, his smile was sharp as he brushed her hair aside and kissed her neck right above the hickey there, never looking away from the web cam. “Jessica Jones’s a private investigator who’s also a superhero vigil-anti, you’re flattered _aren’t you Sam?_ ” The man said mildly, as if they were friends, his eyes sent a different message though, one that has Sam clenching his fists under the table in response.

“Sammy wishes he was that cool, that chick holds her liquor wayy better than Sam.” Dean’s drawl broke the tension, reminding him sharply he had no right starting a pissing contest with this guy.

“Like most jobs, what we do isn’t half as exciting as the TV version.” He agreed giving the guy his best, ‘I’m harmless’ smile.

“Speaking of drinking, where’s that coffee you offered me?” Michele asked looking up at her husband kitten eyed and sweet as she stroked her hand down his arm in absent minded affection, unaware of the byplay passing between the two men over her head.

…ooo0ooo…

Dean Winchester looked moodily across at his little brother from where he was seated at the map table cleaning the weapons. Sam’s shaggy head is bent over a book, file or that crusty diary about the knocked-up nun he’s been doggedly plodding through, every now and then he’ll look up, glance at his laptop screen for a few moments and the corner of his mouth will turn up in a slight smile.

Then he’ll duck his head to submerge himself in his research again.

Dean frowned to himself, he knew what Sam was looking at; Mitch’s still on the other side of that screen, despite the two of them not saying a word to each other for over an hour, she’ll be doing some boring suburban Nerd Mommy-housewife thing, like folding laundry, playing with the kid or reading up on some medical thing one of her kids has.

He can’t for the life of him understand Sammy’s fascination with watching that, it’s like the worst ever reality TV show, one that’s totally devoid of hot chicks, drama or power tools.

Sure, occasionally it might be like a cross between a slapstick comedy and a cooking show, and that’s good for a laugh… like a few weeks back when she baked cookies with the two boys. The explosion of flour when the older boy turned the beater on high was pretty damn epic!

He’d coated everything in a 3-foot radius white, including his mother’s face.

And the smallest kid’s insistence on trying to put every-fucking-thing-within-reach into the bowl whenever his Mom took her eyes off him, that was freaking hilarious.

But the rest of the time, it’s like watching security cam footage.

Dean reassembles Sam’s Taurus and sets it aside while staring into space. Remembers the way Sam’d watched New Zealand’s comedy baking hour with that misty bitter-sweet look on his face.

How later on, over beer and pizza Sam’d muttered, “I used to love watching Jess bake cookies…” picking at the bottle label with his thumb nail.

It’s occurred to Dean in a quiet creeping way, that Sam, who followed Dad’s example of grief rarely spoke of Jess after her death, hoarded his memories as if sharing them might wear them out somehow; Sammy’s been talking about Jess a lot more lately. Which is probably good. Except _the way_ those memories keep coming out always seems to relate to Mitch in some way, and that makes Dean uneasy.

How Sam keeps looking up from his research, like he’s checking Mitch’s where she should be and that smile. Those things combine with Sam’s reaction when he saw those bruises on her and his body language when he was talking to her husband.

It’s probably nothing.

Thing is if it isn’t…

…ooo0ooo…

Dean stands up suddenly knocking his chair to the floor with a clatter.

Sam jumped at the racket and shot his brother a look that asked if he’s purposefully being an asshole or just a klutz.

His brother rocked his head to the side. “Gonna wash Baby, get the road salt off her chassis.” 

Klutz then, Dean sounded sorta riled about something though, probably just the idea of rust attacking the impala.

“That announcement doesn’t require property destruction, Dean.” He jibed as Dean walked off with an over the shoulder, “Bitch” tossed back at him.

Michele blinked at Sam owlishly from the laptop screen like she’s just woken up and doesn’t quite know where she is.

She’s been writing.

“Huh?”

“Sorry,” He apologized, “Dean just needed to wrestle a chair, his way of announcing that he needs to go fight the evils of salt.”

Michele scrunched her nose. “But salts good, isn’t it?”

“Not on his car it isn’t.” 

She frowned, opening her mouth to ask for explanation.

“Road salt.” he clarified beating her to it.

“Ohhh. Snow!

It doesn’t snow here, sorry I’m not dense. Honestly.”

He knows that, “You just live on a tropical island?” He teased with a lopsided smile.

“New Zealand isn’t _tropical_ , heck it doesn’t even really feel like we got a summer this year. Still, at least _you_ don’t think New Zealand is a small town in Arizona, like one of my American fic friends teenaged kids. Speaking of…” Michele gave him a frank speculative look and chewed her bottom lip like she was trying to decide on something. “If I asked you to tip a glass of water on your brother, would you do it?”

“Why?”

“If you’d read the chapter of my fic you posted for me you’d know. But … I’d rather not say, let’s say it’s partially an experiment.”

“He’s not going to melt or like… multiply Michele. Dean does shower regularly.”

Michele looked uncomfortable. “Sammy this might surprise you but your brother in the shower is not something I want to think on, see… or write. Fully dressed wet Dean is my limit. Anyway, forget I asked, it’s stupid!”

“So, the important thing is that Dean gets wet, but you want him wearing clothes?”

“Sam seriously, please drop it. It doesn’t matter!”

“Last time you asked me to do something, I didn’t. And we went to that bar,” he held up his hand when she opened her mouth to argue, “there’s one less monster out there because of it… and I uh don’t regret _that_ , but… you… I regret that _you_ were there with us… So yeah, if you ask me to do something, it does matter, Michele.”

“Sam, it’s not like tha…”

“So? It’s not like Dean couldn’t use a cold shower now and then, just for being a jerk.”

“Sam...” It was her guilty, mildly panicked look that decided him.

“Live a little Michele,” he admonished lightly with a grin. “Come on.” He unplugged the laptop and picked it up. “He’s washing the car, it’s the perfect time.”

…ooo0ooo…

It was bizarre to see the bunkers corridors like this as Sam carried the laptop through the bunker, usually Michele saw the Winchester brother’s world like a collection of disjointed film clips, a scene set one place, another somewhere else, but they were rarely connected by the getting there. Most of the corridors looked the same, neutral tiles with a dark stripe above.

Sam stopped briefly and turned the laptop to face him. “You may get to see something very few people have seen.” Sam warned in a hushed voice.

“What? No, I don’t want… Sam!”

Sam chuckled at her discomfort, his multicoloured fox slanted eyes sparkling with mirth “… Dean in shorts.” He smirked, turning the laptop round and continued walking.

Ahead music’s playing, electric guitar with a strong back beat.

“She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean…” Sam muttered the song lyrics half under his breath along with the screaming vocalist as he carried the laptop into the garage and positioned it on top of one of the vintage cars parked in the bays nearby, pointing it directly at the impala and Dean.

Dean’s wearing a worn-out pair of too big canvas sneakers he probably stole from Sam, a black t-shirt and a pair of frayed, hacked off, denim shorts that obviously started off life as a pair of jeans a long time ago.

He’s singing along with the music while he hoses the Impala’s underside.

“Hey.” Sam calls easily.

“Hey.” Dean looks over his shoulder, standing up and began hosing down the top of the car. “If you’re here, may as well make yourself useful, grab a sponge.” He nudged a bucket full of soapy water.

The vocalist continued shrilling about how some woman shook him all night long as the brothers soaped up the car. They didn’t say much, working together seamlessly, a sort of synergy in the way they move around each other. It’s even more obvious how in-tune they are, watching like this, on a flat screen without a vision driving.

Michele was sure Sam had lost his nerve as the song changed again and Dean started hosing the impala off.

But then, Sam looked right at her, picked up the bucket of sudsy water and dumped it over Dean’s head from behind.

Dean bellowed in shock, standing there with his hair plastered flat, spitting water. Wetness planed down his face, cheekbones and lips, leaving bubbles caught in his eyelashes, the lines beside his eyes and the stubble around his mouth, before he raised a hand to palm them away.

The elder brother shook his head as if in denial, looked at his younger with wide green eyes.

“Sam! What the hell!” He grated resentfully, a look of utmost betrayal painted on his face as he stood there shocked and dripping, his clothing slicked to his skin.

Sam doubled over, hands on his knees, laughing.

He lifted his face and grinned in the direction of the laptop. “Thanks,” He hooted, “been a while since I’ve laughed this hard.”

Dean glared, eyes narrowed dangerously before he raised the spray gun he was holding and shot his brother full in the face with a torrent of cold water.

Sam spluttered, dodging away shaking his wet hair back out of his face then lunged for Dean.

Both brothers pitched to the concrete, rolling and tussling for control of the spray gun like a couple of curs fighting, soaking themselves more in the process.

Watching them Michele was shocked, there was something supremely disturbing about the meaty thwacks, aggressive grunts and bitten off curses, seeing two fully grown men grappling like that. It might have be the equivalent of play to them, but to her it was like they’d lost their minds.

A sharp sound of objection slipped out of her mouth.

Both brothers heads snapped up, their eyes zeroing in on the laptop.

Sam, pinned down by his brother in that moment, looks ruefully embarrassed.

Dean … he looked like a predator disturbed mid kill.

….

Dean looked backwards and forwards between his soaked panting brother and the woman on the laptop screen. Both of them were looking at him with repentant puppy dog eyes. Partners in crime caught in the act and waiting for punishment.

And it’s just wrong. His brother’s on one side of the fence with someone else, and he’s on the other, alone.

His previous irritation surged back.

“Care to explain?”

“It’s my fault.” Mitch answered looking apprehensive and a little scared, like a little kid that’s expecting to be belted. “I’m sorry Dean.”

“No, it’s not.” Sam flared puffing up.

“Great, awesome.” He grunted turning on his heel and walked away from them both without another word, heading for the showers.

“Dean wait!” Sam caught him up and grabbed his arm, “why’re you so pissed dude, it’s just water.”

“Can you even see yourself?” Dean turned on his brother, fists clenched in anger. “She’s _married_ Sam! She has kids! She’s not your girlfriend!”

“What? No! It’s … That’s…” Sam looked slapped. It took some of the sting out of Deans anger.

“Just…. Don’t go there Sam, don’t. What ever Mitch is, no matter how much _you think_ she reminds you of Jess. She’s not Jess!

Jess was gorgeous, man! Mitch isn’t even in the ball park. Only thing they have in common is being dumb enough to care and being innocent. It’s gonna end in blood Sam.

Besides she’s taken, she doesn’t belong anywhere near us an’ our shit show, you know she don’t.”

“I’m not going anywhere Dean! We’re friends that’s all, you’re the one that hits on everything with a pulse, not me!”

“And you’re the one that makes crap decisions about women, you’re the one who never listens and gets good people dead fighting battles they should never have been involved in. You Sam! I might sleep around but you, you fuck people up!”

Dean knew he’d gone to far before the words left his mouth. Dragging up Charlie and the past. He knew that, before he saw Sam’s shattered look.

“Sam I…” too little, too late.

“You know what, Dean. Screw you.” Sam turned his back and walked away.


	81. The Consequences left behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note:  
> Graphic descriptions and artwork concerning suicide.
> 
> I am glad all this artwork is digital or I would have used up all my red crayons by now, funny, I never realized how bloody this fic was.

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 81: The Consequences left behind**

Contrary to what the readers of Carver Edlund’s books, or what the many authors on fan fiction may believe, when Winchesters come to blows verbally, there are often no heart felt broments or deep and meaningful conversations afterwards.

Most often (especially now they inhabit the bunker) they just withdraw to their respective corners and lick their wounds in stormy silence.

Dean may have sketched out moments where he’s dealt with things differently in past months, but this skirmish wouldn’t lead him to _that_ doorstep either, stubborn justification and half formed insecurities, combining with a healthy seasoning of guilt, ensured it.

That and he had too much pride.

Which left a dive bar and copious amounts of liquor, the time-tested way of dealing that he’d learnt at John Winchester’s knee.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam flinched at the sound of the Bunkers door slamming shut.

He’d changed into dry clothes mechanically and was now sitting on the edge of his bed staring into space, mind spiralling in ever decreasing circles of resentment, as he stewed over the things Dean had said.

One minute they’d been goofing round, letting off steam for the first time in what seemed like forever.

Sure, the whole wet Dean thing had been juvenile, but Dean had never been anyone’s definition of grown up.

Dean’d been pissed about the bucket of water over the head, but not _really_ pissed until he’d seen Michele’s face on the laptop.

Then he’d stormed off, started spouting accusations that were way out of left field, but maybe not to be unexpected.

Dean had always taken Sam’s need for friends like a subtle betrayal when they were growing up.

Sam was supposed to just be waiting there when ever Dean wanted him round; but on the flip side Dean could ditch him at the drop of a hat to go off chasing some chick, and leave him alone night after night in which ever dive motel they were inhabiting at the time.

Just like Dean never ever let go of the past, and had a habit of dragging up things he blamed Sam for years after Sam thought they were buried.

So _of course,_ he threw Charlie in his face again too, charged that he’d get Michele killed like her.

Dean was such a hypocrite! _He_ was the one who couldn’t keep two girls straight in his head. Michele wasn’t Charlie, any more than she was Jess.  
He hadn’t drawn her into their world!

She’d been writing their lives long before Sam had stumbled on her story.

Dean made it sound like if he just stopped, Michele would suddenly be out, and free, but that wasn’t the case.

Sam pushed himself to his feet, deciding to stop wasting time and energy fuming at his brother, who was probably out working on alcohol induced oblivion or had his tongue down some bimbo’s throat right now.

To get some work done, and comb through the Prince of Hell research one last time, before discarding it as an angle on a way to track down Kelly.

He made a detour to the garage to retrieve his laptop, which was dead flat now, because the battery life on the thing was pretty laughable.

…ooo0ooo…

Dean woke cold and aching in the impala’s back seat next morning.

The dive bar’s parking lot, like last night’s beer, held no charm at all in the cold light of day; just left him with a splitting head, an acid stomach and a mouth that felt and tasted like the rubbish littered gravel of the lot he was parked in.

He checked his phone wondering if he’d missed any calls from Sam, but there weren’t any.

Not surprising, Sam would be in self righteous, screw you mode, shut down like Fort Knox.

Dean figured if he didn’t turn back up at the bunker by this time tomorrow, Sam might drag himself out of his sulk long enough to leave a bitchy voice mail outlining all the ways Dean was dead wrong, out of line and just acting like a jealous two-year-old who’s best friend had had the tenacity to play with someone else for five minutes.

Dean was determined to get his ass back to the Bunker before that, frankly he didn’t need to hear it.

He’d told himself it all already, with every alternating mouthful of the piss tasting tap-beer the horse faced bartender plunked down in front of him.

Maybe a lot of what Sam’d spit at him would be true, but none of what he’d said the previous day to Sam was wrong either, even if little brother had a stick so far up his ass, he couldn’t see it.

Dean wasn’t gonna apologize for being right any more than Sam would come down off his mountain top of denial.

So, they’d both stew and simmer, snark at each other passive aggressively, and possibly come to blows. Neither one of them would back down and it would continue for a few days, before the next monster or encroaching end of the world disaster made the whole thing seem pointless.

Dad always told them, “the case comes first, everything else works around or gets shelved.” And there was always a case somewhere, finding it was how Winchesters avoided dealing with everything else.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam straightened in his chair realizing his mind had slipped once again from translating the Latin, plague era record about the nun’s pregnancy (with a possible Nephilim) and stretched his spine with a long groan. Despite his best intentions he kept remembering Dean’s words and thinking up sharp rebuttals. Or gazing at his Skype app, seeing Michele’s ID, raising his hand to click on it, then hearing Dean flare _“you’re the one who never listens and gets good people dead,”_ in his head.

Sam let his hand fall limply to the wooden table again.

Dean was a Jerk, no wonder Michele wanted to dump water on him!  
Then, Sam found himself wondering uncomfortably if she was aware of Dean’s allegations about their friendship _. “_ _If you'd read the chapter of my fic you posted for me you'd know. But … I'd rather not say...”_  
The memory of her words sent him searching for her email and the file labelled “Lead me not into temptation.”

…ooo0ooo…

Michele rested her forehead on her hand staring at the screen with a low wrung out sound of distress, she had an urge to raise her head and thump it down again and again on the wooden surface of the desk, and replace the fading headache that had driven her to write with another pain.

Her fic had wet Dean.

But by trying to twist the narrative and please a reviewer, she’d inadvertently poked at Dean’s insecurities, which had combined with his inability to understand male female interactions that didn’t involve sex.  
And, he’d accused Sam of stuff that was _just silly_ (and considering Dean had once tried it on for phone sex, exceedingly pot-kettle territory.) Sam had lashed out, then Dean had done likewise, and well….

All because she’d talked Sam into tipping water over his brother.

The sentence, _“and it’s just wrong, h_ _is brother's on one side of the fence with someone else, and he's on the other, **alone,”** _glares at her from the screen.

All of it had happened because she’d wanted to feel like she had some control of her situation.  
The chapter where she’d first thought of doing it was called “Lead me not into temptation.” How much more warning had she needed that it was a bad idea?  
She knew, she knew, it was an abuse of power… but she’d _just had_ to try it.

To experiment and feel smart for working out a way to manipulate the system.

They’d told her she wasn’t a prophet, but Balaam was a name that came to mind right now.

A bible tale about the Israelites and the Moabites. The Moabite king, hoping to buy power, in the form of a curse against the Israelites, and protect his lands from invasion, had sent minions to offer Balaam money to curse the invaders.  
Balaam had wanted to be bought, but couldn’t, because God didn’t want the Israelites, His chosen people cursed. There was a lot of back and forthing, with a talking donkey and an angel in the mix.

But it was the punch line of the story that applied here. … the prophet who couldn’t curse Israel and could only tell the truth… found another way, had outsmarted the rules of his existence to cash in on the money, (because God always leaves room for free will.) Balaam told the Moabite king _how to get the Israelites to curse themselves_ and had this earned his money. (‘Introduce them to flashy foreign gods and they’ll curse themselves.’)

Convincing Sam to tip water on his brother because she wanted to indulge a friend wasn’t treason.  
Especially since she’d sort of been trying to yank Nic’s chain by purposefully engineering fully clothed wet Dean, something that was supposed to be more funny than titillating.  
Instead she’d ended up with something more like Lemony Snicket’s ‘A series of unfortunate events,’ because as Cougar often lamented, writing Winchesters was like trying to herd cats, incredibly true and really funny coming from someone who thought they were fictional characters.

But it was a step onto a slippery slope. A warning, that trying to bend the story had consequences.

“Lord I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any harm… but I messed up.  
I get it, Sam and Dean… they’re people, not toys and this, what ever it is I’m doing… it’s not a game for my amusement … or anyone else’s.” She sighed.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam raked a hand through his hair, huffed a breath and sat back from the laptop screen trying to process what he’d just read.

Michele’d wanted him to tip water on his brother to satisfy some fan fiction readers predilection.

It was petty, no wonder she hadn’t wanted to tell him why, and then had tried to back out when he’d agreed….

The rest of her chapter wasn’t about him or Dean.  
It was Michele’s life, and spoke of things she never had.

Things he’d never asked about, parts of her life he’d made assumptions on.

Reading it, he couldn’t help feeling bad for her. She spoke and acted as if her life was simple and happy, apart from a few annoying nose bleeds. But she was a bit like Dean, there was a lot happening under her happy go lucky surface. On one level she saw herself as lucky and blessed, was happy and grateful for everything life gave her. But under that she also felt unworthy and carried around survivor’s guilt and a martyr complex. 

He saw her responses differently now, how she’d accepted being thrust into their world, like it was the price she had always expected to pay.

She was set apart as different and other, by things that looked like protection and blessing, but underneath he couldn’t help thinking there was something darker.  
He understood it, those guilt's and burdens. It seemed obvious to him now, she either possesses erratic powers, which she’d rather attribute to an outside source. Or was actually being manipulated by something and had been for a large part of her life. And he could identify with that!  
She wanted to believe that something, was God, but was it?

By listening to her, and allowing her access to their lives was he allowing it to manipulate him and Dean as well?

…ooo0ooo…

Its somewhere between midnight and 2am. Michele was dreaming, she whimpered softly in her sleep. Behind closed eyelids sparks of gold expand and flared in her eyes. Blood began to trail from her nose, soaking into the pillow under her face, staining it crimson.

At her side, Michele’s husband slept on, unaware.

***

Kelly Kline is somewhere cold, damp and gloomy, seated on the bare mattress of a metal cot.

Her eyes are shut, as she leans back against a rough-hewn wooden beam. It helped a little, to keep the cold stone wall against which the cot sat, from leaching more warmth from her body, not much though. 

Her skin was grimy, her hair lank and greasy.

Her ankle was shackled to the cot by a chain and padlocks, the skin under her black leather boot felt raw and abraded.

Dagon had stopped pretending that Kelly was a free agent and not a prisoner, after she had been tricked by the Winchesters.

Kelly stared listlessly at the insides of her eyelids, thinking about what Dagon had told her, that the weird little pains she’d been experiencing were just a taste of what was to come. That birthing a Nephilim was fatal, always.

Her son was going to kill her, Kelly slid a hand over her stomach and felt her child move inside her in response. 

“Hey.” Dagon’s harsh voice and a rough slap to her leg made Kelly jump.

“Vitamin time, the demon waved the pills in her face and Kelly pushed them away.

  
Dagon grabbed her chin roughly, forcing Kelly to meet her eyes.

“Don't,” she warned, then stuffed the pills one by one into the woman’s mouth while pinching Kelly’s face in a superhuman grip.  
Kelly struggled and whimpered as the demon covered her nose and mouth, clamping them shut to stop her spitting like she had done once before, forcing her to swallow.

  
“Be a good girl,” the demon suggested in a singsong voice, as Kelly flailed and struggled in her grip helplessly, running out of air, swallowed raggedly.  
  
“There.” Dagon muttered.  
“Really, Kel?” she chided as Kelly coughed and gagged.   
  
“Not taking your pills, picking at your food, refusing to bathe?” Kelly panted for breath and turned her face away, looking ill. “Stop disrespecting the God inside of you.” The demon advised.  
  
“He's gonna kill me.” Kelly whimpered.  
  
“Yeah. And he's not gonna stop there. Every sad, weak human. Every tight-ass angel. Every sniveling demon. They'll all be consumed.” The demon tilted her head back and smiled in rapture as she spoke. “So, go ahead. Play your games. But whether you're healthy or sick, filthy or clean, He will be born.” Dagon sighed happily. “Good times!”  
“But until then,” the demon leaned over and unlocked the chain from Kelly’s leg. “Do us both a favor? Take a bath.” There was a threat implicit “Do it or I’ll take a cold hose to you, I really don’t care which way it goes Kelly.”

The vision flickers.

***

The world is suspended, no light and a sensation of being cushioned and enfolded.

A drumbeat keeps time in the darkness.

Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub, lub dub, lub dub….

It is a metronome that encompasses the universe.

A feeling of motion rocks her/them.

The rush and surge that reminds Michele of wind or waves is still there, but it feels strained and flat.

“I’m here again.”  
The words are clear, though they aren’t spoken, they have the flavour of her voice and reverberate in this place. Then, it feels like someone or something turns towards her.

 ** _I know you!_** (It is a sensation, that doesn’t quite hold the distinctness of words, a pulse of acknowledgement.)

“Yes… I know this place. Where… Are … We?”

 ** _We? Where?_** (A request for clarification of what she asks.)

Michele’s mind offers an image of herself.  
“Me, I am…” - Her self-image becomes a little confused and blurs, as thoughts and images, her children and family creep in.  
(Separating herself from what she does and who she loves has always been a battle.)

**_??_ **

“I am.” A simple memory of looking at herself in the mirror.

Images of her children reflect back at her from the outside source.

Johnny’s face the strongest **_????_**

“My son, Johnny.” She identifies.

A feeling of deep abiding love wells up out of her with the words. She feels the presence push forwards, toward the reverberations of emotion, like a child enraptured by something beautiful.

 ** _Son??? I am???_** Johnny's face again

**__ **

**_??? Son???_** Again a reflection but this time of the emotion, the love she’d felt, it’s like a crude child’s drawing **_???_**

“I love my son, Johnny.”

 ** _I am son/child also/as well?!!! (‘But I love this child.’)_** It’s a replay of a woman’s voice, behind it Michele feels the presence’s certainty the words refer to him.

Michele feels a pulse of happiness (they understand each other!) It’s met by ‘this child’s’ own, in answer, like an emotional high five.

 ** _‘Love?’ ‘_** this child’ queries again and Michele feels amusement, ‘this child’ knows what Love is, he knew what it was last time they met, he’s just greedy.

But Michele is happy to indulge him. She opens her experience to him like the petals of a flower.

“Love!” She tells ‘this child’ as they examine a million experiences and the faces of the people that embody them, in an instant.  
Some of them puzzle ‘this child.’ There are experiences of love that hold a lot of pain and suffering in the mix, her parents, her pregnancies and her son’s births.  
“Love sometimes hurts. But it’s worth it.” She advises gently. She lets what she’s learnt of love in her 40 years on earth wash through her and into ‘this child’s’ eager grasp.

Then ‘this child’ finds memories of her son Davi’s death.

‘This child’ is confused by her memories of death.

**_???They go away, but they don’t ??? Why???_ **

Michele draws away gently, concerned that the topic isn’t appropriate, so soon.  
‘This child’ tugs at her mind like he’s begging, and she relents a little. Try’s to explain with words.  
“Human bodies don’t last forever, when they cannot support life any longer… the soul moves on…” She layers emotions of sadness and acceptance into her explanation, grief balanced against the hope of eternity with God in heaven.

….

Michele and ‘this child’ are dragged away from their co-exploration.  
A wash of misery and despair encompasses them, devastating everything else. It tastes bitter on the tongue like bile, overwhelming their private universe.  
The metronome of the world races and lurches, the wind and waves become frayed ragged.

“I love you. But we won't ever be together.”  
  
The words surround them both with a lament and Michele recognises it as the same voice ‘this child’ shared earlier. This time the voice isn’t a memory, the words have heft and weight, true sound instead of the flavours of memory and emotion.

Michele is washed and swept up by the way ‘this child’ adores the voice.  
To ‘this child’ the desolate voice is the centre of the universe, his first taste of love, all that is good and right. It makes him happy.  
But Michele understands the tone and the words, and is filled with foreboding.

“There is no happy ending for either of us.” The woman’s voice continues; they are words of despair.

Michele does the disembodied equivalent of nudging ‘this child,’ grabbing him to get his attention, tries to convey the understanding that something is wrong with the woman ‘this child’ adores.

“And if what she said is true, if this is what you really are…” The woman’s voice wavers and breaks in despair. “What you'll do to the world… all that pain, all that death, I can't let that happen.”

It hits Michele like a freight train.

That she knows the woman’s voice, that this is a continuation of the previous vision, just a different view point.

Kelly Kline!  
The woman is Kelly Kline.

‘This child’ is the Nephilim!

The shock of realising this, knocks her free of the small enclosed universe.

Out of Kelly’s womb.

…

Kelly Kline is sitting naked in a bath gripping a shard of broken mirror, sobbing.

“I'm sorry.” She gasps, “I'm sorry.” As she presses the broken glass to her wrist, digs it deep, then drags it up her wrist in a long open gash.  
Kelly gasps and shudders in pain.

  
Clumsily does the same to her other arm, before Michele’s helpless and horrified gaze.

“Nooo!” It’s a pulse of denial and horror, a rejection of suicide on a base level, ripping through Michele.  
She tries to reach out, and grapple for the essence that make up Kelly and ‘this child,’ the nephilim, as if to stop the blood.

Every fibre of her being screams to somehow stop Kelly’s death.

The death of this unborn child, who has never opened his eyes, taken a breath, or laughed.

Frantic, helpless, struggling against futility.

“Nooooo!” Michele watches the bath water turn red, the pulses of blood slow to a lax dribble as her blood pressure drops and Kelly slips further and further from life.

“Noooooooo!” She denies again, trying to push against her insubstantiality, trying to hold life in Kelly, with will alone.

Distantly Michele feels a burning pain in her chest, pushes away the awareness of the pain.

****

**_No???_ **

“ _No_!”

For a second, it’s as if she and the nephilim touch.  
‘This child’ pushes forward into her awareness, sucks up the knowledge of the damage Kelly has done and the consequences … what all the shed blood and the failing pulse mean for both Kelly and ‘this child.’

Whisps and echos of her words about death swirl through the meeting of minds like mist.  
**_????_**

“No, not like this!”

Suicide is wrong.

An aberration.

Against God’s will.

Suicides go to hell!  
– She’s angry, confused and hurting!

**_???God??? Heaven???_ **

“No — _I’m not sure_.” Resentment.

  
Her emotions and experience floods into the link unbidden, there is no hiding or snatching back her childhood wounds.

Barely a teenager, when her Mother’s brother killed himself; watching her mother fall apart for months. Having to be the adult support, while still a child, because there was no one else who would, again.

The consequences left behind.

**_“No!”_** Agreement.

Suddenly a pulse of golden light surged through Kelly, lighting up every capillary, vein and artery.  
The gaping wounds in Kelly’s wrists knitted shut.  
Her body jolted, and she gasped in a breath as her eyes flew open.  
Gold sparks flared briefly in her eyes and a smile like revelation lit up her face.

Then Michele was jerked away.

She returned to light shining in her face from the bedside lamp and Phil shaking her, begging frantically.  
  
“Breath, come on, please breath!”

She gasped in a breath to oblige his request, then grabbed at his hands to stop him shaking her, before her head imploded.  
It feels like her skull is made of shattered eggshell held together with chewing gum.

“Stop, I’m here.” She croaked weakly.

He looked down at her with eyes like wounds.

“You weren’t breathing, there’s _so much blood!”_ He accused.

Michele rolled her head to take in the red squelchy mess that was once her pillow.

  
  
“All the cool kids were doing it,” she muttered thinking of Kelly.  
Her husband just stared at her.  
Irritated that no one appreciated her joke she went to sit up, and promptly fainted.  
Woke up in the ambulance on the way to hospital.


	82. Things that are hard to swallow

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 82: Things that are hard to swallow**

When Dean made his way down the Bunkers stairs Sam was exactly where he expected him to be, seated in the library, head bent over a book.

Dean approached his brother cautiously, dropping a paper bag with Sam’s favored breakfast order to the wooden table, then plunking down the smoothie beside it; in his opinion the thing looked and tasted like drainage canal water and wasn’t fit for human consumption. But Sam had freaky screwed up ideas about food.

Bringing his brother back food was not an admission of guilt, it wasn’t an, ‘I was wrong.’

It was doing his job, Dean defended internally.

Just taking care of his pain in the ass little brother and making sure he ate. ‘Cause Sammy would’ve been up all night, pointy nose wedged in a book, he wouldn’t ‘ve even thought about feeding himself. 

“From that place you like,” he coaxed. “Though how anyone can drink that shit is beyond me.”

“Spirulina is an ecologically sound, nutrient rich, dietary supplement, Dean.” Sam muttered bitchily without looking up, reached out for the smoothie and took a sip of the offensive green sludge.

He nodded once in approval.

“It’s pond slime, Sam, actual pond slime!” Dean pulled a disgusted face to get his point across.

“That the one ‘bout the knocked-up nun?” He asked, trying to avoid starting another fight by changing the topic, knocked his brother’s reading material with his knuckles for emphasis.

“Yeah.” Sam’s voice was closed off as he opened the paper bag, and dragged the shamefully-bacon-free-healthy-flavor-impaired-atrocity out of the bag, cocked an eyebrow in surprise, finding that the food wasn’t something he deemed offensive.

“Thanks,” he muttered, eyes lifting for the briefest moment to his brother’s face, before looking away again. (Little brother hadn’t let go of yesterday, apparently.) 

Sam dug in to his food. “Mmm… Wish I knew if it was about an actual Nephilim or not.”

Dean hummed under his breath. “Why the hell are you readin’ the whole thing Sam, skip to the end, read the last chapter. It’s what I used to do in school.”

Sam scowled in offence. “Dean, I can’t just…” stopped himself, and frowned looking nonplussed.

Then huffed, “okay, guess maybe I can...”  
He leafed through finding a starting point nearer the end. Bent his neck, and rested his head against his open palm; continued eating with his other hand as he read.

“Work smarter, not harder College boy.”

Sam didn’t answer, just grunted, his lips moving soundlessly as he studied the faded Latin. 

Dean figured it was time to make himself scarce.

As he walked away the elder Winchester glanced back at Sam’s laptop.

Noted with a jump of muscles along his jaw that the machine wasn’t even turned on, felt a momentary flash of regret.

  
At most, he’d meant for Sam to rein it in, avoid screwing up things for Mitch with her husband and kids, or getting over involved; not to cut her out entirely.

…..

_“Puer natus est solus sanctus diem introitus eius praevenerat ingens tempestas._

_Tertia vigilia in nocte ante diluculum nuntiatum partu Collete coepit. Renuntiationes fuit, ut ex pluvia sanguine, aderam inundationem inundantem pago… multarum perdidit vitae….”_

**“The child was born on All Saints Day, her entrance heralded by a massive storm.**

**In the third vigil of the night, long before dawn, word came, as Colette began her travail. Reports of** **rain that was blood, unheralded flooding inundating the nearby village… of many lives lost...”**

Sam translated the words, scratching notes onto a pad for later reference as he worked. Mention of ‘rain that was blood’ and a massive storm that caused ‘many lives lost,’ fitted with the signs in the lore associated with a Nephilim’s birth.

**“Of blood rain I cannot confirm, however many God-fearing Christian men swear to the veracity of the claim.**

**I can state that the storm itself was beyond natural in its ferocity. Savage thunder and lightning brought to mind the battle written of in the book of Daniel, as if heavenly and demonic forces were contending. Many within the Abbey walls were filled with dread.**

**Colette travailed long without respite, she and all who were present were greatly wearied by the protracted nature of her tribulation.**

**The child was delivered to the world during the vigil of lauds. The moment of birth was attended by a brilliant flash of illumination and a jolt of impetus unlike any I had forthwith experienced; such that it dashed all of us present during the confinement, loose from our footing.**

**When we once again had regained our feet, we were sore aggrieved to discover that Colette had breathed her last.**

**In death Colette’s face was miraculously composed, all signs of the toil that had ravaged her frame wiped away.**

**Her face could only be described as transcendent, serene, an image of beauty that recommended to the imagination the blessed Virgin’s visage, as it must have appeared upon the birth of our saviour.**

**The child herself was likewise a perfect marvel, one of holy beauty. Not wizened, covered in blood or mucous and squalling, as any other infant born.**

**The child had perfection of form, despite her shortened gestation. Face already capturing the most serene and angelic of smiles.**

**Her crystalline-blue gaze guileless and ageless.**

**Face haloed by fine golden curls, the child was serene and angelic, a child unsullied by the shadow of carnality.**

**In that instant, all who beheld the child, believed.**

**Knew without a doubt that this child was no normal child, she was destined for sainthood.**

**But alas my soul! The powers of darkness, the devil’s own minions, forever seek to snuff out The Lord’s Light; and we were but weak, unworthy custodians.**

**Suddenly, without warning a group of strangers appeared from nowhere inside the locked birthing chamber.**

**The strangers appeared to be two men and three women, dressed in foreign garb, their visages blank of emotion or feeling.**

**I believe they were infernal inhuman imposers, doubtless created by the enemy of our soul. Monstrous minions of hell, having the form of men and women but not the tender sensibilities there of.**

**What else but hellish abominations could perpetrate the heinous crime I quail to report?**

**The slaughter of an innocent child in a place set apart to the worship and contemplation of our Creator.**

**With a wave, one of these demonic beings pinned us helpless against the wall, where we were held motionless by an infernal force, defying our prayers and struggles to escape.**

**We were forced to watch on in horror, as one of the strangers raised a silver spike high and plunged it through the child’s tiny form.**

**Thus, passed the blessed child from this earth.**

**A long drawn out note, high and sharp, rang out piercing us to the soul.**

**The child’s eyes lit up from within, a holy light glimpsed for a moment, as her unsullied soul released its mortal coil.**

**I have no doubt the child’s pure, venerated soul winged straight to heaven, accompanying her blessed mother.  
Our blessed Colette, on whose behalf I pen this account. She who suffered so much during her time on earth and warned of the evil and darkness yet to come; this infernal plague that sweeps over our land, this Black Death; a rot of evil I fully believe the child was born to rescue us from. **

**Now, because of the sin in our hearts and our unbelief, God has abandoned us.**

**I write this account to you Holy Father, begging you to revoke the excommunication of sister Colette. Sister Colette’s words were prophetic revelations and must be spread. Warnings must be given!**

**Her child was not conceived by an act of sin, but by the will of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Her child was no ordinary child!**

**We must repent, scourge ourselves of our sin and unbelief. Pray for forgiveness, that we be spared the ravages….”**

Sam stopped reading.

The account continued with more pious rambling about sin, Black Death and the forces of darkness.

There was no need to continue reading.

It was obvious the nun’s child had been a Nephilim. Dispatched on the day of it’s birth, by an angelic task force similar to the one Isham had deceived Castiel and all his flight into believing they were part of, that had killed Lilly Sunder’s human daughter.

……

It occurred to Sam much later, as he drunk yet another cup of coffee and applied himself to other records of Nephilim lore; that while both the nun Colette and her Nephilim daughter’s life had been cut short. The cleric’s incredibly detailed (and long winded) record could be of use.

Colette claimed the angel came to her and ‘stirred life within her’ on Ascension Thursday, the child was born on All Saints Day, that gave an actual timeline.

….

It turned out Ascension Thursday, unlike All Saints Day, was not a concrete date, it was slotted to occur 40 days after Resurrection Sunday. Which in turn was defined as ‘the first Sunday after the first full moon following the March equinox.’ March 21st, a date which recalled a conversation about both Dean’s horror movie fascination and Michele’s birthday.

Sam ran a rueful hand through his hair and shook his head and began the calculations, thinking of his brother and whether he ought to try talking with Dean about what had happened, and what Michele was and might be made him feel cut adrift, uncertain how to approach or deal with either.

Working out a date, 40 days after the first full moon subsequent to March 21st in the year 1347 was going to take some work. It would at least help him figure out how much longer they had, before Kelly’s child would be born, a question that had haunted his thoughts with increasing frequency.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam was seated at the map table staring fixedly at his folded hands.

As he got closer, Dean realized the map-table was covered in scrawled writing, weird symbols  
and calculations.  
  
  
“Wooh! What's up, Beautiful Mind?” He leaned closer to examine what Sam had been working on.

  
  
“I guess…  
I just figured we can't exactly track Dagon, so I've been reading up on Nephilim, trying to figure out how much time we have before –“  
  
“'Lil Lucifer pops?”  
  
“Yeah.” Sam gestured to his calculation. “Okay, so we know Kelly got pregnant sometime in early December. According to the lore, Nephilim don't need 9 months to get to full term, so I think she will be giving birth around…” he tapped the white board marker against a grid of numbers, most of which were crossed out. The 18 was circled “May 18th…Which means –“  
  
“We have less than a month to find her.” Dean finished his brother’s sentence...  
  
“Yeah, and exactly no idea where to start.” Sam grimaced and licked his lips.

Suddenly, Dean noticed that his right palm was resting square over the two purple blobs that represented Mitch’s country on the map table. Remembered what the woman had said about Kelly and her child. 

“Okay, but even if we do find her, what then?”

Sam looked pensive, as if he too was thinking about major surgery or Kelly having to give birth to a dead baby… He pulled a face and shook his head. “I don't know. I mean, I-I …”

Suddenly the sound of the bunker’s door opening made them both look up.

A figure in a familiar tan trench coat stepped through.

“Cas!” Sam burst out from beside him, coming to his feet.  
  
“Hello.” The angel greeted, as if he hadn’t dropped off the radar for a month.  
  
“Hey. You're all right. Um – Where have you been?” Sam asked breathlessly.   
  
Dean shook himself out of his paralysis.

“Let me rephrase that for Sam. _Where the hell have you been?_ And why have you ignored our phone calls?”  
  
“Where I was, the – the reception was, uh, poor.”  
  
“No bars?” He spat incredulously looking at his brother. “No bars. That's his excuse.  
Wow!”  
  
“I was in Heaven.” Castiel admitted reluctantly, “I was working with the angels. When I saw Dagon had captured Kelly, I-I thought they could help.”  
  
“And?” Sam asked  
  
Castiel shook his head and looked away. “Nothing.”

  
  
“Well, at least you're back.” Sam did his usual conciliatory thing. “We're glad you're back.” Sam gave the angel a hopeful, kicked puppy smile.  
  
“Really?” Dean flared; Sam looked round at him and the stupid conciliatory smile dropped off his face.

“No! I'm sorry. Okay, 'cause while you were striking out in Heaven, we had a shot at Dagon, and we lost!” He fumed at the angel. All the worry and frustration of the past few weeks spilling out like bile.  
  
“I know. I received your messages.” Cas studied his shoes.  
  
“Oh, you did! – You did receive the messages? Okay, that's good.”  
  
“Dean...”  
  
“So not only were you ditching us, but you were also ignoring us? That's great. 'Cause we really could've used the backup. But, uh, you were too busy with, um,” the elder Winchester clicked his fingers “What was it?

**_Nothing?”_ **

“Dean, I –“  
  
“What the hell is wrong with you, man!?” He stared at the angel, and again Castiel dropped his eyes, standing silent.  
Somehow that just made him angrier… Dean knew, he’d vented at the people who mattered to him far to often lately.

Hadn’t even repaired things with Sam, and now he was nuking Cas.

He needed to stop.

Even if the angel did deserve his ass handed to him.  
“You know, _whatever_. That's…” laughed humorlessly “… Yeah. Welcome back.” It was either walk away, or he’d keep tearing strips off everyone.

  
  
“Dean, y—“ he heard Sam call after him, but knew better than to stop.

…ooo0ooo…

Dean walked away, and Sam watched the angel’s shoulders droop further, as if another burden had been placed on him.

“Cas, you okay?”

The angel sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck looking pained.

“No.” He replied in a defeated gravely voice.

“Come on Cas, you know Dean doesn’t mean it...” He reconsidered. “Okay maybe he does… But it’s just things with Kelly and Dagon…”

“Yes, I know… It is not Dean… well, mostly not Dean… I - I am… troubled. Some of the things I learned whilst in Heaven... were unsettling.”

“Like?”

“Among other things, that my brothers and sisters have committed atrocities against The Lord’s favored. Innocents He tasked us to protect.”

“I-I don’t understand Cas.”

“Whilst in Heaven I took the opportunity to further investigate the topic you queried me about.  
Prophets.  
The emergence of Donatello Redfield raised some questions, I believed when we spoke that Donatello was dead.”

“Donatello isn’t dead?”

“It appears he is alive,” the angel answered gravely. “I cannot locate him, however.”

“Cas that’s _good_ news! Maybe you can’t track him with your angel mojo. But we can track him down, you know… uhh … old school. If we can find Donatello, we still have the demon tablet… it’s got to mention Princes of Hell. We can find a way to track down Dagon … and Kelly…”

“Sam, because I cannot locate him, but his death is not recorded, I believe Donatello is possibly, now what may be referred to as a soiled prophet. And he isn’t the only one.”

“So, what? He can’t translate the demon tablet? There are more of these …uhm… Soiled prophets…?”

“In Donatello’s case I believe it had to do with his activation or contact with Amara. Donatello is unique.”

Castiel examined his tie studiously, avoiding Sam’s gaze in a way that left the hunter increasingly worried.

“You said something before… about ... uhh… atrocities…?”

“Yes, it appears Heaven was aware of Azazel’s creation of special children, before you were born. A small group of my brethren participated in what you would term ‘an arms race’… of sorts. Azazel infected selected human infants with his blood. In response, an attempt was made to create a heavenly equivalent, an answering part human warrior, imbibed with celestial energy… infants that were fed angelic grace.”

“What? You can do that?”

“The simple answer is no, all the infants died - quite horribly…”

“Why do I have a feeling that wasn’t the end of it.”

The angel nodded. “Prophets. A prophet’s purpose is to be a conduit of God’s word to humanity, they may after a fashion, be considered vessels, or potential vessels of God’s will. As such they are capable of withstanding … much more than other humans.”  
The Angel stopped again. “What was done.... it is an abomination far greater in magnitude than what Azazel did to you.”

“They fed proto prophets angelic grace? An angel willingly gave up a portion of their grace for that? _Did it work?”_

“Not willingly, no. As a traitor, one who failed in his duty, allowed Lucifer to enter the garden of Eden, the angel was given no choice about his participation.”

“Gadreel?!”

Kevin’s murderer. The revelation made Sam wonder whether Gadreel had killed Kevin as a kind of mislaid act of revenge.

“Yes. His grace was used multiple times throughout the … experiments.  
Those potential prophetic infants also... perished most horribly.” Castiel looked away again for a moment, before continuing.  
“The project didn’t cease with those failures, however.  
It was determined that the blood of a Prince of Hell was the key. That it would behave as a catalyst or surfactant, allowing a human soul to absorb the angelic grace, without catastrophic failure of the test subjects body. Thus, creating the desired weapon.”

“Sorta like drinking demon blood? H-how I did.. be- before I said ‘yes’ to Lucifer?” Sam gulped and shuddered, cursing himself for bringing up the memory.

“Yes Sam.” Cas looked distressed and Sam suddenly remembered he wasn’t the only one who suffered possession by Lucifer.

“Where’d they get a Prince of Hell’s blood? Surely a Prince of Hell wouldn’t …”

“Ramiel. You recall, he stated that it had been a long time since he last saw an angel…? The rumors that Ramiel was captured briefly …. Appear not to have been rumors. Whilst he was in custody, they extracted a sample of his blood.”

“He wanted revenge? That’s why he was so hell bent on killing you?”

“It appears so.” The angel answered gravel voiced, staring across the war room.

Sam rubbed at the whiteboard marker calculations scrawled across the map-table in front of him. “How many of these weaponized kids are out there?”

“It appears almost all of those subjects also perished.  
Soiled prophets, like Nephilim, are hidden from my perception, tracking them is problematic.  
I was forced to search the records, then match them to records of deaths … the celestial equivalent of manually.” Cas grimaced, and Sam couldn’t help smiling.

“Lots huh?”

“Most of the potential prophets selected were born in small isolated places, Baharain, Nauru, West Keeling island, Macquarie Island, Aotearoa .... Places with relatively small populations.  
It was the one born in Aotearoa that proves to be problematic. She was not one of the 25959 deaths to occur in that country, in the year the trials were carried out.”

“So, you think this girl is still alive?”

“That is my belief, yes.  
Naomi had all the angels from that flight, the ones involved in the project executed.  
All except one, Sibiel.  
Sibiel vanished 40 years ago, the year the possible surviving soiled prophet was created.”

“So... the weaponized kid isn’t a kid. But that’s good, right? If this soiled prophet hasn’t gone thermonuclear or popped up on the radar after all these years, the likelihood is she’s either dead or not...”

“Sam, this experiment, this soiled prophet, it is an abomination.  
Abhorrent in the eyes of the Lord.  
No longer human. Something that has been twisted in ways you cannot comprehend, by my brother’s and sister’s hubris.   
Prophets are …” Castiel looked upset, “… _we_ were, supposed to protect them. It is beyond heinous that this was done to an innocent, one of God’s favorites!  
If this blighted being still lives, I must find it and end its suffering.”

“But…”

“After we find and deal with Kelly Kline’s child.

Your threat assessment is correct, Sam. Finding this creature if it lives, must take a back seat to the danger presented by Lucifer’s offspring.”

“So, if we survive Lucifers kid, you’ll be booking a flight to uhh Aotearoa?”

“New Zealand.”

“What?!”

“Aotearoa is officially referred to as New Zealand on airline schedules.”


	83. Not  So Amazing Grace

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 83: Not So Amazing Grace**

Michele shifted uncomfortably on the hospital mattress, swiping back hair tangled and stiff with blood using the hand not nailed down by the IV, and grimaced in distaste at the sensation.

Phil had tried to help her clean up with a couple of handfuls of damp paper towels from the rooms dispenser. But she was still a mess, her hair felt gross and her pyjama top was stiff in patches, smelling sickeningly of a combination of blood and disinfectant hand-wash.

She felt vulnerable and unhappy, didn’t have her glasses, her phone, or her wallet.

Phil had left hours ago to pick up Chris and make sure the other three got off to school okay.

Any moment now, another nurse or doctor would come in and put their hands on her like she was public property. None of them asked permission or introduced themselves.

She’d always hated it when strangers touched her, but she needed to sit there and let them.

Once upon a time she’d been one of them.

The girl in the lab coat, upstairs in the lab. 

Now she was in a hospital bed, as a patient, so they treated her like she knew nothing.

They stared through her, like she was just a lump of meat, made for them to practice on.

Could they tell she wasn’t telling them everything?

Did they suspect her of misleading them?

Probably, if they’d ever watched House MD, he said patients always lie.

They probably thought she’d been taking some designer drug or suffered from munchausen’s.

They looked at her puzzled, or with a vague kind of resentment, because she wasn’t following the rules. People didn’t get sick without any reason.

But she couldn’t tell them, ‘there’s something else beside science at work in the world, no number of blood tests are going to explain this. There is a supernatural element that lurks just below the skin of everyday normal. That’s where the answers are.’

If she tried to explain any of it, they’d say she was nuts.

She couldn’t refuse to play the game everyone else played, or refuse the tests.

No matter how pointless they all were.

Normal people didn’t refuse tests, they are good, obedient, they sat there and trusted the doctors to help them. 

She did need the transfusions and the rest of it.

The problem was Medical professionals are trained to seek answers and while it wasn’t their fault they didn’t have the tools, and the answers weren’t in the realms of medicine or science. The insistence on finding those answers wasn’t helping.

But Michele understood, once upon a time she’d been one of them.

So, she pasted on a smile and made the expected polite noises when the phlebotomist came in with a blue topped tube to draw an APTT, and when a far-to-young-looking nurse took her blood pressure, oxygen saturation and temperature, again.

Most of them would go off shift and never think of her again.

All except for the large Samoan nurse who had been there when she’d first arrived, the one who had been standing over her fiddling with her IV line, when another vision hit.

Chances were good she’d seen her eyes light up.

Michele hadn’t seen her much since, but when she did, the woman edged round the room nervously, side-eyeing her constantly, and kept dropping things.

What ever the woman had seen, and her conclusions on it; she looked scared, and looked like she thought of her patient as something dangerous. 

Michele wanted to argue, to explain, ‘it was just a vision, I’m harmless.’

  
The vision:  
Dagon telling Kelly that her child didn’t care about her, that he’d simply saved himself.  
That nothing had changed, that the Nephilim would be born, and Kelly would die.  
That Dagon wanted to shape the child into something that would destroy the world.  


Thinking about it, Michele was forced to wonder if the nurse’s reaction had merit.

  
Dagon was wrong about ‘this child’ not caring about Kelly.  
But if Kelly died and Dagon raised him, twisted and abused him.  
Could that eager trusting blank slate of a mind become anything but the killer he be moulded to be?

Her narrow view point, that suicide was never the answer, that it was wrong, and evil.  
It had been a knee jerk reaction.

Kelly had been trying to save ‘this child’ from what Dagon wanted to do.  
Save the world, and her son, by slitting her wrists.  
By killing herself, and her child, she had tried to stop evil killing the world.

Wasn’t that an act of love? Not an act of selfishness.

  
God would know that, wouldn’t He?  
She believed that God judged the heart, not the action  
… but she’d just barrelled in with her narrow viewpoint and decided she knew best.  
If she hadn’t interfered, would Kelly and ‘this child’ have simply drifted away and died, gone to heaven and in doing so made the world safe?  
Or was the demon right, would self preservation, an organisms instinctive struggle for life, have kicked in anyway?

  
Had _she_ changed things?

Had she damned ‘this child,’ by trying to save him ….?

Had she killed the world… ?

Had she killed everyone she loved, by interfering… ?

  
Michele jammed her hand against her mouth as the full weight of what she’d done hit her.

Sam! Dean!  
….Ohhh, Dean would want to shoot her for this! …

**....**

Another vision: Sam reading that chapter of her fic, and thinking about her….

… _It seemed obvious to him now she either possessed erratic powers, which she'd rather attribute to an outside source. Or was actually being manipulated by something and had been for most of her life._

_She wanted to believe that something, was God, but was it? By listening to her, allowing her access to their lives was he allowing it to manipulate him and Dean as well?_

**....**

More blood, all down her chin, all over the white hospital sheets, bloody tears on her cheeks.

Was Sam right?

So many people had done awful things believing they were doing good, believing they were right, all the way through human history.

The crusades, the inquisition, witch trials, blowing up abortion clinics, justifying slavery and invasion… Killing people, creating weapons. All reactions out of pain, or fear, from uninformed narrow view points of what was good and right.

Those mistakes were why so many people hated Christians. People meant to do good, to stand up for what was right, but instead they ended up hurt others.

The average German during the Holocaust thought their leaders were good. Hitler twisted the narrative, claimed the Jews had killed Jesus, they were evil and needed to be stopped.

Millions died.

Had she just saved someone with more potential for evil than Hitler?

_Please God, No!_

If you could go back in time and kill Hitler as a child would you?

They say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions…

...Who ever destroys a life, destroys the world. Who ever saves a life saves the world entire.

… all evil needs to persist, is for good people to stand by and do nothing.

The seesaw teetered back and forth leaving her feeling sick and dizzy.

“I just want to be good, to do what’s right! How do I know what’s right?!” She sobbed as grief and fear clawed her throat.

Bloody tears washed to normal salt water, then dried, before someone came in and found her. They would only see the mess that she’d made.

…..

Sam closed his eyes and took a breath as Castiel walked away.

He’d hesitated to ask what the soiled prophet’s name was, hadn’t told Cas anything about Michele.

Just wanted some space and time to figure it all out in his head. 

He flashed on the memory of Michele’s face, the last time he’d seen her; all wide anxious eyes and guilty regret. He’d just walked away from her without a word, to chase after Dean.

He hadn’t reached out to her since, he’d been feeling so mixed up, guilty. And maybe a little betrayed.

  
It made sense that she was this soiled prophet, it felt like the moment when you’re picking a lock and all the pins slide into place.  
It explained everything.

Her visions, her writing, even the weird thing with the dead fly.

It explained the connection he felt for her, that draw he felt.

They were the same. 

There were so many similarities between Michele and Ava. The way they both came into his life trying to help, and how he felt like he’d known them forever, how trusting them just felt natural, almost like they could be family.

He and Michele had yellow eyed demon blood in them…

In a way they were related by blood.

And then there was that other thing … Gadreel.

Was _he_ another connection tying them together?

Maybe a week ago, he’d have been eager to tell Michele, to toss the info at her feet and say, “there, see, this is what you are. Your happy life and all your church services are a delusion. The God you adore, he let you become some experiment, you’ve been ‘soiled’ by angels, you can’t say God cares.”

He would have wanted to tell her, “Wake up don’t be like Michael, all his stubborn loyalty to God got him was broken and locked in a cage.”

  
Now he’s glimpsed inside Michele’s head, and seen someone more fragile than she appeared, someone putting up a good front, and putting one foot in front of the other, trying to do better.

Like him, like Dean.

And telling her doesn’t feel like it would be a win.

  
Cas had called her a weapon and an experiment, an abomination. Abhorrent in the eyes of her God. No longer human. Twisted and blighted.

The thought of telling her any of that made his mouth dry, and his heart heavy.

How could he tell her any of that?

How did he tell her, you were special, had potential, but now you’re just unclean, like me? It wasn’t a demon that had done this to her, it was angels…. Somehow that made it a thousand times worse.

And Dean, how would he react?

…ooo0ooo…

Dean sat in his room, at his desk staring at his laptop.  
He’d started out looking for a job, a reason to get out of the Bunker.  
But because…

Maybe he thought, it was because he was weak and pathetic, he’d opened up Skype, and wanted — something… to tell Mitch that Cas was back, maybe …?

He didn’t know.

Instead, he found Mitch wasn’t on line.

She was always on freaking line, worse than Sam!  
Only time she wasn’t, was when she slept.  
She ought to be up by now, ‘cause it was a week day and she had kids, always complained that sleeping was something you gave up when you had kids.

The only explanation he could think of was their little psychic stalker had seen his fight with Sam and was now avoiding him.

Which was just perfect, the icing on the cake!

Sam, Cas, and now Mitch.

He screws everything up!

He switched back to Charlie’s search engine, keyed in search details, and stared at it waiting, hoping something would give him a break.

There was a brief knock on his door.

After a few moments hesitation the knob turned, and the door swung open.

Cas.

He refused to look up, Cas had ignored them, he could see how it felt!

“Sorry, Dean.” The angel hovered in the door way hesitantly, then fished inside his coat, pulling out a cassette tape.

It was the Zeppelin tape, Dean’d made up after he’d caught Cas listening to that god-awful fire and brimstone preacher, the one that seemed to infiltrate every radio band in the midwestern states.  
“Um, I just wanted to return this.” Cas muttered and stepped forward to place it on the desk by his elbow, then turned to go, like a kicked puppy.

_‘Damnit Cas!!’_  
  
Keeping his eyes on the screen, the hunter scooped up the tape and held it out.

“It's a gift. You keep those.” He grated.  
  
“Oh.” The angel took it back, and turned to leave. It made Dean feel like a heel…

He took a breath. “Cas, you can't. – With everything that's going on, you can't just go dark like that. We didn't know what happened to you.  
We were worried.  
That's not okay.”  
  
“Well, I didn't mean to add to your distress. I … Dean, I just keep failing.” The angel admitted. “Again and again. When you were taken, I searched for months and I couldn't find you!  
And then Kelly escaped on my watch, and I couldn't find her. And I just wanted… I needed to come back here with a win for you. For myself.” He added.

  
  
Turning in his chair, Dean tipped it back to look up at the angel finally.

“You think you're the only one rolling snake eyes here?” He dragged a weary hand across his face. “Me and Sam, we had her. We had Kelly, and we lost her!”

  
  
“And if you find her again?”  
  
“Sam's working on it.” Dean swallowed and looked down. “Of course, he's hell-bent on finding something that doesn't mean killing her or her kid.”  
  
“Right. And if he doesn't find something? If you run out of time, could either of you kill an innocent?”  


That was the real question wasn’t it? He’d killed people before. Mitch had thought he was capable of it… but now? After she’d made him think, _really think_ , about it… he wasn’t sure he was strong enough.   
Knew Sam wouldn’t be.

“We will find a better way.” He answered finally. It was the only reply he could give.  
  
“You mean, we?” Cas gestured between them sounding surprised.  
  
“Yes, dumbass. We.” First, he was returning gifts, now he thought he was out?! They needed to keep tabs on Cas’s Netflicks viewing. He was starting to sound like a teenaged girl. “You, me, and Sam, we're just better together.” Dean found his feet and walked towards the angel. “So now that you're back, let's go, Team Free Will.  
Let's get it done.”

  
  
“I'd like that.” The angel looked down as if he was about to make some sort of emotional declaration of remorse.

_Nope, this ain’t a Netflicks drama Cas, time for an exit._

  
“Great. And I'd like a beer.” He pushed past the angel and made his way to the kitchen.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam was seated in the library with his laptop on his lap, though he wasn’t doing much with it.  
Mostly he was thinking, he hadn’t come to any conclusions about Michele, the chances were she’d find out on her own, maybe that was why she wasn’t on line.

He kept finding himself musing about whether it was the yellow eyed demon blood that tied them together or Gadreel’s grace.

True, Cas had extracted most of it, to attempt that angel tracking spell, he said the rest was burning out.

But he wondered …. after Lucifer had separated from him in the cage, he had taunted that, now Sam’d said ‘yes’ to him, he’d always be a part of him….  
Was the same true of Gadreel.

He shivered and pushed the thought away forcefully.

It always seemed their life was chasing, trying to track down someone or something, trying to stop it. The yellow eyed Demon, Lilith, Gadreel, Metatron, Amara, Lucifer and now Kelly’s kid… if only there was a spell, like the one Cas had suggested they use to track down Gadreel… could they tweak that spell to find a Nephilim?

“Hey, come on, man. Get some sleep, all right? You're not gonna find Dagon tonight.” Dean’s voice made him jump.  
  
“Dean, what if we've been going about this whole thing the wrong way, you know? I-I mean, we – we can't track Dagon, right? We know that. We've tried. But – but what if we can track the Nephilim?”

  
  
Dean wandered closer, pulled out a chair to sit across from him, propped his face in one hand, willing as always to be a sounding board. “How?”

He slapped his laptop shut in excitement and looked at his brother. “Well Okay, the baby's half-angel, right? So, remember Gadreel?”

  
  
“The psycho angel who took your body for a test drive? Yeah, what about him?” 

  
  
“All right, well there was this, uh, there was this spell – Cas and I were working on it – to – to find him.”

  
  
“Yeah, but it didn't work.” Dean argued.

  
  
“Yeah.”

  
“You needed Gadreel's grace, and he couldn't yank enough out of you.” Dean was always the one to find the flaws, you sorta need to have the Nephilim before you can suck out it’s grace. But Lucifer was this kid’s father and what if they could suck some of Lucifer’s grace out of him….

Then it hit him… _suck out it’s grace._  
  
A huff of derision at his own stupidity, “Of course!”

  
  
“Of course what?”  
  
He looked away as he chased the possibilities with a smile. “Of course, I’m an idiot.”  
  
“Well, there's no argument there.” Dean snarked, always the big brother.  
  
“No, stop. Dean – the grace extraction. The tracking spell was a bust, right?”

Dean raised his eyebrows, didn’t answer, just gave him the ‘come on Sam share with the class, I’m not following,’ look.  
  
“But, but the extraction ritual worked.”  
  
“So?” Dean still wasn’t getting it. It made him feel less stupid for not thinking of it, before now.  
  
“So what if Cas used it on Kelly's kid? I mean, a-a Nephilim's just a human soul with angelic grace, right? So you remove the grace –“  
  
“Kid's just a kid.” Dean’s face went blank, trying to find the holes.  
  
“Kid's just a kid. That way, Kelly wouldn't have to die, and – and neither would her baby.” A small huff of amazement slipped out. If this worked he’d take it back.

Miracles could happen.  
  
“Hot damn!” Dean looked at him with hope burning in his eyes for the first time in weeks.

  
  
“Hot damn! I mean, we still obviously have to find Kelly in the first place... And, it's just a theory, but –“  
  
“No, no, no. No. That's – This is it. This is it, Sam!” Dean smiled, really smiled. His brother looked at him with burning belief, like he was a hero.

And it hit Sam how much the thought of killing Kelly, killing her kid had weighed Dean down.

“I'll get Cas.” Dean all but bounded out of the room.  
  
Sam picked up his laptop again. He couldn’t wait to tell Michele!

Michele!… The grace extraction! If it could work on Kelly’s kid, it could work on Michele too, the angelic grace they’d put in her had to be the reason why she kept bleeding. If they could get it out of her…

.....

Dean burst back in.

“We’ve got a problem. Cas is gone! So’s the Colt!”


	84. Entropy

**Chapter 84: Entropy**

Sam sighed in frustration.

“I mean, how did Cas even get the Colt out of the safe in the first place?”

Dean dropped his head and stared fixedly at the weapons bag he was packing.

“Dean, you – you put the Colt back in the safe. Right, Dean?”

“It was under my pillow.” His brother admitted, face set like when he was younger and telling Dad one of his failures.

“It –“

“I like to keep it close.” The green-eyed hunter muttered.

Sam let out a huff of annoyance.

Then took a breath, the braced look of stoic acceptance on Deans face ... It rolled back the years. A latent image of a smaller Dean, standing there between him and Dad, ready to take the punishment and responsibility for everything, always; eternally the oldest, the one who should know better.

“He came into my room and he played me!” Dean fumed in outrage.

Sam braced his hands on the map-table and felt his anger at both Dean and Cas wilt..

“Yeah, he played us both.”

“Well, I say we find him and we kick his feathered ass.” Dean tossed an angel blade into the weapons bag scowling.

“Dean,” he held up a quelling hand, “Cas wouldn't have taken the Colt if he wasn't going up against something big.”

After Cas’ revelations, there’d been a moment of panic… when Dean announced both Cas and the Colt were gone. However, Jimmy Novak’s passport was in the desk draw where Cas kept it.

“Okay, I say we find him, figure out what's going on, and then we kick his feathered ass.” Dean reiterated again.

Sam’s phone chimed.

Even though it wasn’t Cas’ ring tone, a wild hope surged.

Pulling it out he saw Michele’s ID.

“It’s Michele.” He glanced nervously at his brother expecting a scowl, instead Deans lips twitched, then he lifted his chin slightly in a come-on motion.

“Hey Michele.” He put the phone on speaker. “Dean’s here too.”

“Sam, Dean. Cas is okay!” She informed them brightly.

“Yeah, not so much.” Dean grumbled scowling.

“No, I mean I saw him, he’s in Iowa at the North Point Motel. Or will be, in… about 7 hours. I saw him checking in. And before you start telling me how my country is a postage stamp. I checked, there’s only one North Point Motel in Iowa. I’ve emailed you the address.”

“Wow ahh, thanks, that’s that’s… yeah, great …”

“Well off you go then. Depending where exactly your secret lair is and if google trip meter is accurate, you might be cutting it fine.” Her voice thrummed with nerves.

“Michele… is that _all_ you’ve seen lately?”

“Where’ve you been Mitch?” Dean demanded gruffly.

Michele blew out a sharp breath and hesitated before answering. “I’ve been in hospital,” she admitted, Sam couldn’t help noting she’d avoided his question.

“Turns out the bruises weren’t altogether nothing.” Another breath, more hesitation.

“I _saw_ you two …umm arguing… about _me_.” Her voice was halting and apologetic. “And Sam, I saw you... thinking about it and ...reading. I’m sorry, I never wanted… to be the cause of …trouble. It was stupid and childish and I’m sorry.” She cleared her throat, sniffed and took a small breath sounding close to tears.

“ _Please_ , just… go find Cas. I know you’ve both been worried about him.

I can do _that_ right.”

She didn’t know Cas had come back, stolen the Colt and run out on them. Which meant she didn’t know anything, about soiled prophets.

Of course not, that would be too easy.

Sam stared at the phone in his hand, jaw clenched with dread.

As he hesitated, uncertain what to say, Dean grabbed the phone out of his hand, “Go grab our stuff Sam. My bag’s packed.” He pushed Sam away roughly, hefted the weapons bag and headed towards the garage.

“Sweetheart, what ever you saw, that ain’t on you…” Dean’s voice faded as he walked briskly away with the phone, Sam didn’t get to hear the rest of what he had to say.

For a moment the younger Winchester just stood there too surprised to move, then got himself back into action, headed to grab their duffles.

Dean didn’t know a lot: why Michele had asked Sam to tip water on him, about the story she was still publishing, or the whole soiled prophet thing.

But for Dean to willingly deal with an emotionally distressed woman... that spoke volumes!

Their argument over her suddenly looked different. Dean saying Michele didn’t belong near them, bringing up Charlie. He’d viewed that as Dean being pissed and embarrassed, thinking Sam had put him on display. He hadn’t considered it might be because Dean was worried about Michele, that he cared not just impersonally, about an innocent civilian, a wife and Mom; similar to the idol that loss and Dad had taught him to worship, forging him into a hunter.

But, about her … Michele, who could turn a conversation into a sermon or a therapy session. Michele, with her tendency to ignore all Dean’s do not enter signs and treat him with a softness, his brother often didn’t know how to handle.  
Sam had figured Dean had grown a grudging sort of respect for Michele’s intelligence and constance in the past months. Knew he took a certain amount of pleasure from their verbal sparring and yanking her chain.

But had been certain his brother still viewed her as a minor irritant. One only tolerated for the information she could provide, a similar attitude he extended to law enforcement, and more grudgingly towards some of the Men of Letters.

Dean grabbing the phone and walking away with it just now, that showed a level of investment he hadn’t suspected.

It said Dean saw her as one of their people.

That made Sam feel simultaneously better, and worse about telling Dean what Cas had said about soiled prophets.

...

Sam carried their bags to the garage, walked in to hear Dean’s half of the conversation as he packed the car.

“Yeah well, I’m glad it didn’t have anything to do with those pills.”

“...Smart people can do dumb things too College girl.” His brother scoffed slamming the impalas hood.

“…Whatever. Here we call that high school.”

“Sam’s back, time to hit the road.

Yeah… Well, first I’m gonna kick his ass… It’ll make _me_ feel better… He coulda asked, just sayin’…”

Dean listened for a bit, then glanced across the impala’s roof at him and smiled. “Yeah I know he is.” He murmured softly.  
Sam hunched his shoulders, the look in Deans eyes said they were talking about him, great!

Dean side eyed him again and one corner of his lips quirked up at what she said next.

“‘Cause he’d get a big head, then he wouldn’t fit in the car… Mmm, you better rest then,” Dean answered decisively. “Dude can recognise a genius, so you oughta listen.” He pulled his keys out of his pocket.  
“Sam, she wants to talk to you.” Dean tossed the phone, he caught it as they slid into the impala.

“Hey.” Dean had turned off speaker, he didn’t bother turning it back on.

“I just wanted to say you’re wonderful Sam!” A much happier New Zealander enthused in his ear. “Dean told me about your idea of removing the grace from Kelly’s baby, it’ll work, I just know it! Thank you. It makes me believe all this can work out…”

“Its only a theory, if we can’t find Kelly, or get her away from Dagon…”

“Yes. I know.”

“Thanks for Cas’ location, any idea what he’s up to?”

“Uhm… Driving to Iowa?” She had that smart-ass lilt in her voice, the one he liked so much — Sam caught himself guiltily and glanced across at his brother.

“Yeah… I sorta guessed that much.” He answered dryly, pushing his hair back, watched Dean’s face as he navigated the impala onto the sealed road.

“That’s because _you_ are an incredibly smart man, something your brother knows and is _proud of_ , even if he’s too manly to tell you.” Sam felt his cheeks heat, shifted in his seat, uncertain how to respond to the praise.

“How - how long were you in hospital?” He asked finally.  
Not what he wanted to ask, what he wanted to ask was _why_ she’d been in hospital, but he knew she’d just give him a lecture on something medical. Michele might not lie… but she did deflect.

“I still am.” She answered somewhat stiffly. “I’m refilled on plasma, platelets and red-cells. They’re muttering about my lymphocyte count but letting me go home tomorrow.”

He wonders if her wet Dean stunt had anything to do with it.

“… I think one of the nurses saw my eyes light up…” she spoke the words soft and hesitant in his ear. The draw of her distress tugged at him. “She was scared _of me_ Sam…”

He grimaced, knew what she wanted, she wanted reassurance. But she also doesn’t want lies and the memory of all the special children they’ve met, and the things they could do, the things that her chapter hinted at, and Cas’ words… none of that would allow him to give her it. 

“You’d be surprised how easy people move on from glimpses of the unexplained, Michele. They block them out, by...by tomorrow that nurse’ll doubt what she saw.” Sam chewed his lip before adding. “If you think about things in your own life, you’ll know that.”

A drawn-out sigh came from the other end of the phone.  
“Yeah… I hope so.  
About … _that_ … You think I’m being manipulated? That I might manipulate you guys because of it?… I umm I guess with the whole wet Dean thing… I can understand you thinking that.” She spoke carefully, like she was choosing each word.

“But _that_ was _me_ , Sam…all me, it was a stupid juvenile mistake, I’m _sorry okay?_ ”

He hummed in the back of his throat in response, unwilling to say anything, with Dean sitting there beside him.

“Sam, I think… what’s in charge of my story was trying to warn me not to… That’s why that chapter was called Lead me not into temptation.”

“Michele...”

“My visions…I know you don’t believe it’s God, I know you think God left, and that we’re alone. But Dean killed _Death_ and people still die, Sam.  
I think, maybe, the manifestation you met … Chuck… He’s just a tiny facet, a small fragment of ALL God is.  
God is... He’s Bigger than that, Sam… He’s got to be!  
He hasn’t abandoned us, not really.  
This… I don’t know, maybe it’s like when Jesus ascended, after the resurrection.” A soft breath brushed his ear.

“Sammy, _I know_ I can’t possibly understand everything you’ve been through, you’ve suffered _so much_ … and you have _every right_ to feel angry, betrayed and used. But we aren’t cut adrift.”

He winced, he should tell her, tell her what Cas had told him. Tell her it wasn’t just him who had a right to feel betrayed.

But he _just couldn’t_ , not right now, not when she was in hospital.

When he told her... he wanted… needed, to look her in the face.

It was the least he should do.

“Michele, I haveta go.” He forced the words out through a throat that wanted to clamp shut. “Get better, okay?”

…ooo0ooo…

Michele set her phone down on the bed with a sigh.

For a bit, after Dean had told her about Sam’s plan to remove the grace from ‘this child’ she’d been elated and relieved.

She hadn’t committed an unforgivable sin after all!

She hadn’t damned the world!

Dean didn’t know why she’d got Sam to tip water on him, but she could convince herself that Dean wouldn’t hold a grudge, that none of her mistakes mattered.

But the longer she spoke to Sam, the further away he seemed.  
With every cautious word he spoke, it became clearer to her that the Sam didn’t trust her.

He’d read her words, seen her half-formed fears, who she was inside. 

There were so many moments when she didn’t like or trust herself, so she couldn’t find it in herself to blame Sam for feeling the same.

Reading all that, it was probably like watching a documentary on blood diamonds then looking at your diamond engagement ring... It was bound to change his view of her, and not for the better.

That was ...okay. All for the best really, Dean was wrong about a lot, but he wasn’t wrong that Sam didn’t need to lose anyone else he cared about. She’d been listening to the doctors; felt weirdly calm about the possibilities they’d laid out with their neutral scientific terms.

If she was wrong, if every vision was a toss of the dice; and could snuff her out randomly. Then it was better she walked lightly through the Winchester’s world. They’d lost too many people that mattered to them, it was best for everyone having some distance.

As if to underline things, a vision punched the breath from her lips.

***

Castiel stared at Kelly Kline as he handed her a glass of water, and wondered why he hadn’t simply shot her.

It was expedient; once he’d wasted one of the Colt’s only two bullets, failing to kill Dagon.

His brothers had died holding back the Prince of Hell, so he could use that last remaining bullet, to shoot Kelly in the stomach, and end the threat of Lucifer’s Nephilim spawn.

However, when he found Kelly chained in that basement, she’d looked at him and smiled.

Inexplicably he had found himself faltering in his mission, remembering Sam tell him how being gut shot was an extremely painful way to die for a human.

Instead of shooting her, he’d turned from The Plan, grabbed her and run, driven randomly for hours.

His orders were now to take Kelly to Heaven.

Passing through Heaven’s gate would be a swift and painless death, for both Kelly and her child, and neither Winchester would be faced with the task.

However, once he’d received Joshua’s orders, the truck had inexplicably refused to start, despite being filled with fuel. Castiel felt so much frustration with his useless crippled wings. Relying on machinery was annoying.

Earth was a place of chaos, entropy a constant annoyance. Automotive maintenance was not something he’d had occasion to practice, but Dean often claimed you could learn anything you wanted from an online tutorial. He turned his attention to the search engine on the phone.

Michele jolted in shock and fought herself free of the angel’s thoughts, discomfortingly aware of how very alien his thoughts felt; beneath Castiel’s human exterior he was disconcertingly …other.

  
Things were working out though!

Castiel had gotten Kelly free of Dagon, they were stranded by a conveniently broken truck. And Michele doubted watching a Youtube tutorial would help much, Sam and Dean were on their way, they’d find them and tell Castiel and Kelly there was a better way than death by heaven’s gate, then they’d take the grace out of Kelly’s baby and no one would have to die! Kelly and her child would live and the risk would be mitigated. 

“Something happened to me, Castiel. I lost hope. I tried…. I killed myself.”

The angel looked at the woman in surprise.

Kelly tilted her head. “I slit my wrists... I died! And then…” she breathed out a breath and smiled incredulously. “He saved me.” She stroked a hand over her child, looking down with a smile, then up at Castiel expectantly. “He brought me back to life!”

“Well... that was the pulse.” Castiel frowned perplexed. “We felt that in Heaven.”

“His power, _his soul_ , surged through me, and it was _good_. Pure. I feel, _I know,_ he is good! Kelly’s face was lit up with rapturous belief.

Michele was surprised to realise Kelly’s pure adoration and belief actually seemed to hurt the angel.

It made Castiel ache as he stepped closer, and thrummed through him in harmonics and twisted shards of grief.

Her face… the way it shone, reminded him wrenchingly of his brother’s and sisters countenances when they first beheld the Father’s creation… the timeless time before…full to bursting with praise and wonder...

Castiel let out a breath, pushed the memories of that time away.

Those times were passed, he was no longer that angel.

“Kelly, what your child did, that's a testament to his power, but it's not proof of some goodness.  
He needs you alive.”

“Maybe... Or maybe it was a miracle!” Kelly continued unabated. “Maybe – maybe everything that I've been through, everything that I still have to go through, is happening for a reason. Maybe it's part of some plan.”

“No, it isn't.” The Angel argued. “I used to believe in a plan.”

Michele was knocked sideways by the desolation Castiel felt, the sheer onslaught of his pain, and the understatement of Castiel’s words as he seated himself next to Kelly.

“I used to believe that I had some mission. But I have been through enough now to know that everyone is just winging it. Some of us quite badly.

Lucifer, he's just breaking toys. He's sowing destruction and chaos, and there is no grand purpose at work. And there's no special role for you. When Lucifer took over Rooney's body, I'm sorry. You were just there.”

Seeing how it broke something inside of Castiel to admit all that to Kelly, how he offered her what he believed, in an attempt to save her from pain... Castiel’s kindness, amidst his own deeply wounded brokenness touched Michele.

For a second Castiel held Kelly’s eyes, saw her burning belief flicker with uncertainty.

The angel dropped his eyes to his phone.

_(“There’s another way Castiel. God’s made a way… don’t give up on believing.”)_ Michele ached to tell the battered angel. She pressed closer to the pair, infuriated by her formless form. Desperate to tell the angel, that Sam and Dean had found a way. _(“Noone has to die Cas, you’re an angel Cas…. Please, you were made to protect Gods creation and you can.”)_ Michele reached out longing to touch the angel and make him see, that he didn’t have to try so hard, if he stopped winging it, if he let God’s other children help, he’d see! That maybe all he had to do was stop, stop getting in the way of God’s bigger plan.

Kelly sighed, “I know my baby can be good for this world.” She argued stubbornly.

“Kelly, if he's born, that is not something you can survive. So even if you are right, and even if the worst isn't inevitable, then who will care for him when you're gone? Who? Who is strong enough to protect him and to keep him from evil influences and to keep him on the righteous path?”

**(????** The pulse of query caught Michele by surprise.)

Kelly laughed softly and looked down at her stomach with a smile.

“What?

“He just –“Kelly cradled her stomach and smiled, “he just kicked. Do you want to ...?”

“Oh, no.” The angel demurred, looking down.

“It's not a big deal, Castiel. He does it, like, 20 times a day.” Kelly grabbed his hand in hers and rested it over her son’s football practice.

**(????** This time the query was stronger

(“Can you hear me?”) Michele asked the Nephilim, Kelly’s son.

**(“Yes. I know you!!???”)** Michele was startled by how clearly ‘this child’s’ words reached her.

(“Yes! Do you remember me?”)

**(“Yes!!”)** An echo of an image of her, then a lightning fast shuffle of everything they had shared before now flicked by.

(“You learned words?”)

**(“Yes. My mother…We shared many things when…”)** An impression of power and knitting flesh.

**(“Someone else is here???”)**

“Castiel,” Michele agreed, and sent an image, labelling Kelly and the angel seated on the bed, and the bump where ‘this child’ resided as clearly as she could.

(“He (Castiel) got you and your mother away from Dagon, she was bad...she hurt your mother.”) A memory of how Kelly had been chained, of Dagon forcing the pills down Kelly’s throat twisted in Michele’s mind.

A surge of strong emotion scattered the conversation between Michele and ‘this child,’ like wind through a pile of autumn leaves.) 

A sudden motion under his hand surprised and startled Castiel, he flared his tattered wings slightly in shock, would have pulled away, but Kelly’s warm fingers squeezed his slightly in reassurance.

Reproduction was something that an angel inherently found overwhelming. Angels were as The Father intended from the moment they came into being. Not so with humans, within them creation and decay took place.  
Within Kelly’s fragile human body sparked by a moment of passion, another soul had _created_ , a body was being knitted together, molecule by molecule, cell by cell. Something new, with limitless potential.

Something both angelic and human… Castiel could feel it, the thrum of _new_ celestial energy under his palm, but also the warmth of the child’s human soul.

The two forces were twined together, making something unknown.

Despite his burgeoning fear, Castiel found himself swept up in marvel of it, felt a halting smile curve his lips. 

Kelly gazed at the angel’s smile and smiled back, thinking that despite everything and where he intended to take her, Castiel was good. A good person, if angels were people.   
His hand rested so lightly over her son, without any of the hungry possessiveness and underlying schemes that Dagon gave off.  
_Castiel wanted to kill her and her child_ , but somehow his touch made her feel protected. His startled blue eyes, when they met hers ever so briefly, had held a moment of simple awe for the life inside her.

Suddenly Kelly’s eyes lit up, flaring with sparks of golden light – And Michele watched it, feeling a thrill of shock, as Kelly was swept, **_by a vision_** :

A sandbox in a park somewhere, the sand inscribed meticulously with a strange intricate design, brilliant white light rising up from the sand like a waterfall in reverse.

Castiel standing between Kelly and some danger, warning someone to stay away from her.

A flash of consuming flames.

A half-finished mural of an apple tree and a rainbow on the wall, a baby’s cot half built on the floor, Castiel looking down at Kelly earnestly, “I will give my life for your son, and I will raise him and I will make him someone you will be proud of.”

Michele and Kelly both gasp in shock, and Michele spins away.

Returning to more spilled blood and an overwhelmed feeling of confusion.


	85. I Carried You

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 85: I carried you**

When Sam finally finished telling his brother everything Cas said about the soiled prophets, he felt hollow, like an empty beer can waiting to be crushed between Deans hands.

The silence in the car felt charged, a court room, moments before the verdict is announced.  
Guilty or not guilty.

Dean as the judge.

Dean rubbed at the back of his neck, kept his eyes fixed on the road as he drove, and Sam found himself wishing for some of Dean’s music.

Anything to fill the moments ticking by, with only the base purr of the impala’s engine to occupy them.

Finally, Dean’s lips twisted. “So, she’s a fricking experiment?” he muttered. “Those winged sonofbitches were subbing for Doctor Moreau, an’ Little Miss Sunshine was supposed to be a weapon of mass destruction!?” He snorted in derision, “They were trying to make agent orange and got something that makes soybeans flower...”

“Yeah Dean. I dunno …Sorta I guess…”

Those hints in Michele’s writing have made Sam wonder if she’s like Magda Peterson.

Maybe she’d been hurting people without meaning to.

But he won’t mention her story to Dean.

Silence on it is a mutual unspoken agreement.

In this he is her lawyer.

The things she writes in her story are inadmissible, self incrimination under duress. And he is in no position to judge— as far as he can tell none of _those_ people are dead.

Dean frowned tapping his thumb against the impala’s wheel, measuring out some beat only he could hear.

“What do you call a half-angel, half-demon hybrid.” He asked finally.

“The easy answer is you don’t, Dean.  
Neither angels or demons are capable of reproduction without a human intermediary. A human demon hybrid is a Cambion. A — a human angel hybrid is… well, _you know that’s a Nephilim.  
_B-but I checked, there seems to be no lore about human angel-demon hybrids.”

“Score!”

“Score!?” Sam questioned, grinding his teeth to rein in his agitation.

“Bobby’s rule, you discovered it, you get to name it. Its your turn anyways, I got to name the Jefferson starships.   
What’s it gonna be? Cambilium? Nephilbion? …. Nah, I forgot the prophet bit… Ha! how ‘bout a prophilion. Her husband’s called Phil, get it pro-Phil-ion

“She isn’t an **_it_** Dean! I can’t believe you!”

“Even **_it_** is a damn sight better than calling her a frickin’ soiled prophet, Sammy!  
Call her Nephilim dark, a smoke and light combo with a prophetic chaser … Call her late for dinner for all I care. But don’t go dumping that soiled prophet crap on her.  
I watched you beat yourself up for _years_ ‘cause Cas called you an abomination ‘the boy with demon blood.’ Telling her what Cas said— Especially the whole ‘abhorrent in the eyes of god’ thing... Just no Sam.  
Okay?!”

Sam dropped his head to his hands. Dean was right… and he was actually trying _not_ to be a Jerk.  
“Telling her she’s got demon blood in her… that that poison is running through her veins…” 

“Makes her pretty much related to _you,_ in some weird demon-blood-cousin-by-adoption, kinda way.” His brother suggested quickly, side eyeing him.

“Is that supposed to be the silver lining? Being tenuously related, by _demon blood,_ to me?” Sam rolled his eyes at his brother.

“If it makes you feel better, she can be my weird demon-blood-adopted cousin as well,” Dean offered himself magnanimously, with a wave.

“And that’s something she’d want?!!”

“I’m a joy to be related to!”

“I’m pretty sure the Cambell’s would disagree Dean.”

Dean grunted and looked pissed.  
But Sam just can’t minimise this… there are some things Dean _will never_ understand and being contaminated by demon blood is one of them.

They sit in silence for a long time, until Dean shoved in an AC/DC tape and turned it up decisively, ending any further discussion.

…ooo0ooo…

Michele’s green eyes snap open, she’s been drifting in that twilit half-awake, half-asleep place that hospital time sucks you into, the waiting that happens in the space in between.  
Now she’s alert, knows the approaching noise intimately.  
Her two-year old’s yodel, the sharper notes of her daughters competitively sniping at each other, the occasional accent note of her 8-year old’s voice woven in. It’s the refrain that brings meaning to her days.

“Shhh you lot! Slow up, quiet down. This is a hospital not a zoo.” Her husband’s frazzled voice cuts in above the kids. 

Then the door swings open and Johnny throws himself at her, the force of his fearful love propelling him across the space like he has wings.  
On the floor beside the bed, her two-year-old runs on the spot with his chubby arms raised in supplication. “Mum Mum mum,” he chants, then breaks into tears.  
He wants up, and she’s not lifting him quick enough.  
Shuffling Johnny awkwardly to one side, she leans over scooping Chris up onto the bed in an awkward one arm drag. Immediately her two-year-old buries his face in her hair, dialling back to sniffles.  
Her daughters wander in next and sprawl themselves on the foot of the bed.

“We drew our game.” The youngest twin announces and immediately pulls out her phone to take a selfie with them all. If it’s not on Instagram, it didn’t happen.

“We would have won if _Vic_ spent more time watching the ball and less time watching _b-oys._ ” Her sister taunted rocking the bed with an exaggerated hair flick; a mocking imitation of her sibling’s signature move. 

Michele breathes a sigh, there are several types of girls in this world.

Jen’ is more like her, serious and hard working, takes her responsibilities hyper seriously, worries about doing what’s right, but is almost oblivious to peer pressure.

Vic’ meanwhile is her butterfly girl, she’s social and photogenic, puts in just enough effort, then relies on looks and charm for the rest, but is always looking over her shoulder, worrying about what others think.

“There’s nothing wrong with a draw Jen, playing soccer is _supposed to be fun,_ remember that.  
That said, you’ll impress which ever boy you think is cute, _much more_ if you _don’t_ miss that shot because you weren’t watching the ball Vic.”

Phil enters, and leans against the wall, glaring at his teenaged daughters.

“Yeah what she said!” He mutters and scrubs at his lips with the back of his hand, shooting his wife a begging look.  
“The whole drive… _the whole drive,_ through the car park, and up the lift… please. Please! Come home.”

Michele smiles

“Come home…

Come home?”

She breaks into the chorus of a One Republic song

“'Cause I've been waiting for you

for so long,

For so long.

And right now there's a war between the vanities.”

She nudges both her daughters teasingly as she sings, smiles at her husband.

“But all I see is you and me.

The fight for you is all I've ever known.

So…Come home…”

Everyone laughs, and Michele lets it thrum through, and wash over her.  
This is one of those moments that everything else is all about.

…ooo0ooo…

Kelly takes a stunned breath.

 **(“Do not be afraid, go to the gate, trust Castiel.”)** The words and images reverberate through her.

“Kelly?” Castiel peers at her frowning.

Then, there’s a knock on the door.

Castiel stands drawing the gun and pushes her towards the bathroom.

Kelly ducks inside, then finds herself wondering what the point of hiding is.

“Yeah that’s mine.” Kelly hears a rough voice growl, then there’s a thud of impact.She peers fearfully back out of the bathroom to see a man holding Castiel against the wall, arm hard across his chest, right up in the angel’s face.

“What the hell you thinking, huh?” The man growls; Kelly is surprised by how passively Castiel stands in the man’s grasp.

Suddenly, Kelly registers another, larger man by the door, staring right at her.  
Sam Winchester! The sight of him makes her heart stutter.

She knows he isn’t a bad man, but every time she sees him, things get worse. … She grips the door frame for support.

Sam Winchester’s eyes widen in almost matching shock, “Dean!”

“What!”

“Dean!” Sam calls again urgently, and the man holding Castiel turns his head.

Kelly recognises him now.

She should, he’s abducted her twice.

Dean Winchester, second least sympathetic member of the line-up that enlightened her to the fact she was pregnant to the devil himself.

Dean gives Castiel a searching look, then lets his arm drop and turns.

Both brothers walk towards her looking shocked.

“Kelly? –“ The shorter brother asks, as if he still can’t believe his eyes.

“Hey.” She says, stepping forward to meet them, trying to appear more nonchalant than she feels.

“Hey.” Sam echos with a tense quirk of his eyebrows.

“How did you find us?” Castiel breaks in finally, approaching the three of them.

Dean tore his eyes away from her, looked toward Castiel, then glanced away.  
“Well, while you were scamming me for the Colt, Sam put a tracking app on your phone.”

Castiel gazes at Sam like he’s hurt.

Sam glances at his brother and nods, his eyes flicking away nervously. “Cas, when you came back, you didn't even look us in the eye.  
You wanna explain what's going on here?” 

“Yeah. I found Dagon.”

“And?”

“Did you kill her?” Dean demanded.

“No.” The word hangs in the air and all of them grimace.  
“Uh… She's difficult to kill, okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam huffs.

“You think?” Dean vented bitterly, and Kelly wondered for the first time where the others are, the ones who were with them last time.

“All right! So, what are you doing here, then?” Sam stopped the conversation stalling.

“I…” Castiel sighed, “my truck broke down.” He admitted shamefaced.

“Then – Then. why didn't you call us? Cas, we could've helped you.” He demanded reaching out an imploring hand to the angel.

“I know. I wanted to keep you out of this. I-I was trying to keep you safe.”

“You're not our babysitter, Cas, okay?” Dean muttered holstering the gun he’d been holding. “That is not your job. And when in _our whole lives_ have we ever been _safe_?!!!”

“This is my responsibility because it is my plan.”

“Your plan?”

“He's taking me to Heaven.” Kelly answered, starting to feel irritated by the way the three men were discussing her while she just stood there.

“You – You're taking her to the sandbox?”  
  
Kelly tensed. The intricate pattern in the sand, the brilliant upward fall of light, that’s the gate to heaven!

“Yes. I'm ending this, once and for all. Kelly and her baby have to die.” Castiel stated dogmatically.

Kelly felt her stomach twist when she heard Castiel speak of her death.  
But remembered her son’s words, held to the certainty that if Castiel took her to heaven’s gate, things would work out as she’d seen.

She’s seen the gate open.

Her son showed her the future, and she believes him with everything she has.

“No, they don't! Listen, we found another way.” Sam Winchester exhaled excitedly.

“And you would know that if you would answer your phone.” His brother added resentfully.

“Wait, what are you talking about?” Castiel frowned looking confused.

“What you did with me, with – with Gadreel, remember? The – the grace extraction.” Sam explained, his eyes lighting with excitement. “We take the grace from the baby, from the Nephilim, and then the baby just becomes –“

“Human.” Castiel finished.

“Human.” Sam agreed with a dawning smile.

Kelly frowned.  
Her son is going to be good for the world!  
Castiel will raise him and he’ll do amazing things with his power.  
The Winchesters want to take away his power, and ruin his destiny.  
Make him into just another little boy growing up without a daddy, he could change history, cure cancer, bring about world peace.  
He will be all the things Jeff Roonie was never going to be. The Winchesters mean well, but they don’t understand her son’s greater gifting and purpose!  
They’re scared.

“Wait a minute. That extraction, it nearly killed you.” Castiel cautioned.

“Yeah, but it didn't!”

**No!** She’s been through to much; she loves her child too much to take _that_ risk.  
If a huge, fully grown man nearly died from this, ‘grace extraction’ it would certainly kill her tiny son.

_“Because we didn't finish it._ We don't even know if this would work.”

“There are kinks, yes,” Dean broke in. “But it's a plan. And it beats the hell out of certain death.” He looked to her with a tilted head. “Am I right?”

Kelly looked at the brothers and the angel.

“No.” She answered.  
Because if she has to choose, her son, herself or both of them…  
She’ll choose her own death – Every-time.  
Failing that, she’d rather they be in heaven _together_ … It’s a bizarre thing, and if anyone had told her a year ago, she’d feel this way; care more for this small boy she’s _never even seen_ than for herself, she’d have laughed and said they were insane.  
Now she remembers all those times her mother laughed. “One day you’ll be a mother and you’ll understand Kelly!”

Grabbing her coat Kelly walked out the door. Now she _does_ understand.

“Hey, Kelly. Kelly. Hey, wait, wait. Wait a second, look. We – we can't imagine what you've been through, okay? But we promised we'd find another way, _and we did._ We found a better way. _This can work_.” Sam chased after her, begging her to see.  
But she has seen!

“I'm going with Castiel.” She informed him.

“No, Kelly, if you go with Cas, you die. Your _baby_ dies.” He begged her, pushing forward into her path, stood in front of her gesturing passionately, trying to make her see, he thought she didn’t understand. But she does! She knows more than he does, now.

“I go with you, you take away the thing that makes him special.”

“How does that matter if you're both dead?”

“That's the only thing that matters.” She told him stonily.

“Okay, this girl has lost her mind.” Dean commentated.

“Hey, _Dean_!...” Castiel scolded.

“Meanwhile, can we take this conversation elsewhere, guys? We're kind of sitting ducks out here.”

“Sam's right. Dagon is after Kelly. Your truck is broke down. Why don't we get in the Impala, we'll head back to The Bunker, and we'll talk? We'll figure it out.” Dean agreed with his brother, Kelly looked at Castiel and saw him wavering.

“Okay, we'll talk.” Castiel conceded, grabbing her arm and dragged her over to the big black car, tried to open the door, found it locked.

“Dean!” Castiel interrupted the brother’s heated conversation, “it’s locked!”

Dean tossed Castiel the keys and went back to arguing with his brother.

Castiel unlocked the door and helped her into the front, then climbed in behind.  
Tossed the keys next to her on the driver’s side.

Kelly sat in the front seat, feeling worried.

“It's not supposed to happen this way.” She breathed mournfully.

She sighed, exhaling sharply and looked down at her son as she tried to work out what was happening, noticed the keys sitting on the seat beside her.

“Missy there are two types of people in this world, the ones that sit around saying how life isn’t supposed to be like it is. And the ones that make it how they want it.” Eva Kline advised from her memory.

She eyed the two Winchesters through the glass, distracted, and still discussing her life like they’ll figure it all out, and she doesn’t have any right to choose.  
She closed her hand around the keys and slid herself behind the wheel.

“Kelly. What are you doing?” Castiel warned, just as she slid the key into the ignition, ignoring him she slammed the car into gear and pulled out, so quickly the tires pealed like they were in a movie.

The Winchesters were left chasing after her dust.  
Kelly smiled to herself.

She knows what she’s heading for.

“Turn around. Where are you going?” Castiel demanded.

“To Heaven… The sandbox… if you tell me how to get there.” Because _okay_ , she knew where she was heading, but didn’t actually know if she was driving in the right direction.

“Kelly, I can make you stop this car.”

“Why haven't you?”

“Okay, why are you doing this?” The angel asked perplexed.

“Because _he chose you_ , Castiel! When you put your hand on my stomach, I heard him. He spoke to me. He told me that even if it seems scary, if I just went to the gate, if I just followed your plan, that you would make sure he was born. Sam and Dean, they want to take away his powers because they're scared.” Shook her head mockingly. “But I'm not!” She declared with certainty.

“Kelly, you – “

“You asked me who would protect him, guide him when I'm gone.” She cut the angel off. “I know now. It's you.”

“Me?” The angel choked out. “That's… I.. I am not someone that you should put your faith in, Kelly!  
I couldn't kill Dagon back there. I lost two of my men. I betrayed my friends — my family.”

“Before all this happened, I was a cut-rate political flack in an embarrassingly unprofessional relationship with my boss.” She told the angel, almost laughed seeing suddenly how shallow and pointless her life, the life she thought was so important, had really been.  
Shook her head, “I don’t know why it’s me. And I don't know why it's you. But I know that we are destined for something here. Something great.” Her shining belief seemed to pummel Castiel, beat him into compliance.

“Well, I wish I had your faith….”

Kelly glances back at him and smiled in blissful certainty.

“You will.”

…ooo0ooo…

The bath was full, and Michele looked down at the water.  
When her husband had shooed her towards the bathroom, and told her to go take a bath and relax while he cooked dinner; it had seemed like a marvellous idea...  
Until just now, staring at the tub full of gently steaming water... now, the memory of Kelly sitting in a similar bathtub dragging that broken shard of glass up her wrists won’t stop playing in her head.

She shuddered and turned aside, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, ran a hand over her own breasts, belly and hips, that were never going to be the same, now she is a mother.  
The soft give of padded out flesh she finds hard to think of as desirable to anyone, the silvery web of stretch marks etched into her skin. Proof that she had once been the universe entire to three small lives.  
Just like Kelly is to this child.

There but for the grace of God.

She wondered, if she were in Kelly’s place, would she have had the courage to slit her wrists, to kill herself and her child, to save the world?  
Or if someone said that they wanted to suck out what made her kids unique, if someone said one of her kids had a power angels, demons and hero’s feared, could end the world—(or even the weird gift/curse that was Johnny’s Autism…) would she? could she, trust anyone enough? (Even Sam and Dean) to let them take it out?

Michele shook her head, stepped into the warm water, slid down into its embrace, and was almost unsurprised when a vision came as if it had been called.

***

It is dark when Kelly and Castiel finally reach the little park. Kelly looks around and runs a nervous hand over her stomach, feels her son stir, hears an owl hoot somewhere off into the trees.

Without speaking the woman and angel cross the grass towards the sandbox side by side.

“This is it?” Kelly asked staring at the intricate design sculpted into the sand.

“This is it.” Castiel agreed, looking at her searchingly, his blue eyes woeful.  
“Kelly, are you sure?”

She nodded and took a nervous breath. “As long as you're here, I know it's gonna be okay.”

Then it was just like Kelly’s vision, a high ringing note, brilliant white light swirled and surged, tumbling upwards like a waterfall in reverse.

Michele is startled, the sandbox?!  
The gate to Heaven?!

What are Kelly and Cas doing here?

Where are Sam and Dean? How come they hadn’t stopped this?

Has Castiel refused to listen to them, decided in his rigid angelic way that Kelly and this child had to die?

When the light subsided, an angel is revealed. His face is kind and solemn as he steps towards them.

“Castiel. Kelly. It's good to see you.” The angel greeted; his voice gentle in a way that reminded Kelly suddenly of the Chaplin at the hospital where her mother worked.

“Hello, Joshua.” Castiel greeted.

“I know you must be scared.” Joshua said soothingly, Kelly nodded tensely “But don't be…”

Suddenly there was a flash and the angel exploded into a cloud of ash.

Kelly gasped and flailed in shock.

In his place stood Dagon, looking pleased with herself.

The demon waved her hands to dispel the vaporised angel.“Ugh!” She complained, smiling at Kelly with a predatory slow smile.  
“Hey, girl.” Dagon purred.  
“Wow! You two got so close! If I hadn't made it here at the last possible second, uh!” The demon gestured in consternation, sucked a breath of horror.  
Then tilted her head with a smirk. “J. K. Flipped your pal Kelvin ages ago, then done smoked him. I've been here for _hours_.”

The demon stepped towards Kelly, and Castiel put himself between them, his angel blade appearing in his hand.

“You stay away from her.”

“What, no Colt?” The demon demanded, steepling her hands in front of her face gleefully.  
“Wait. You don't even have it anymore? Hilarious.”

Michele blinked in surprise. But… Castiel had one bullet, didn’t he? Why wasn’t he using the Colt?

Castiel lunged at the demon with his blade and Michele was stunned…

Dean said… Cas’ blade hadn’t worked on Ramiel, that Prince of Hell had just brushed it off, wouldn’t it be the same with this one, too?

Michele and Kelly watched from their differing vantage points in horror as Dagon beat the angel into the dust in a matter of moments.

“Look at him, your angelic defender.” Dagon scoffed looking at Kelly scornfully.  
“You really thought he was gonna save you?” She stalked over to Castiel. “This sad, fluttering, aimless little moth?” The demon grabbed Castiel by the throat and lifted him into the air, raised a hand glowing with the same light that she’d used to vaporise the angel Joshua.

No! Michele gasped unheard.

“No!” Kelly echoed.

Suddenly Michele’s perspective changed, she _is_ Kelly.

**(??? I am???** This child questioned stirring and flexing within Kelly’s body, sensing Michele’s presence.

Michele’s shocked mind spills the nightmare scene out to ‘this child’ like a wail of distress.

‘This child’ reaches out, like he’s somehow, he was placing a tiny hand in hers, witnessing it helplessly together, they steady each other to endure.)

Suddenly an engine revved and headlights splashed crazily over scene, the doors of a truck that was suddenly gatecrashing the drama flung open and a man spilled out, followed by another.

The first man raised a gun and began firing at the demon.

The man emptied the gun’s whole clip into Dagon. 

It did little more than distract the demon.

But distraction was enough. The Prince of Hell tossed the angel aside, turned and charged at the man as he reloaded.

Dagon backhanded the man into a park bench.

It splintered and collapses under the impact of his body.

Suddenly both Kelly and Michele recognise Sam Winchester, lying stunned and gasping in the wreckage.

Dagon stood with her back to Kelly, then suddenly she vanished.

Kelly and her invisible hitchhiker found themselves staring straight into Dean Winchester’s raised gun.

Without warning Dagon reappeared beside Dean.

He must read Kelly’s face, turned towards the threat.

But was too slow.

The demon grabbed the gun with one hand, slammed her other into Dean’s arm.

Kelly and Michele heard the bone snap from 20 feet away as The Prince of Hell backhanded him away.

“Yeah. Time to take this off the board.” Dagon looked at the gun in her hand disdainfully, holding it out, away from her body like it was noxious.

In her hand, the gun began to glow and melt, a piece fell off and tumbled to the ground.

Dean yelled out in protest.

The demon tossed the other piece over her shoulder, like a used apple core.

“Okay. Who wants ice cream?” She simpered.

Suddenly, Michele realised the gun the demon has just destroyed was the Colt!

Dagon turned back towards Kelly and smiled.

Ambled towards her as if she had all the time in the world now. 

Gasping and panting in pain Castiel pulled himself to his feet, stumbled towards Kelly, intent on continuing his defence of her.

“Kid, come on. It's just getting sad.” The demon scoffed eyeing the beaten angel in amusement.

**(???**

This child choses this moment to push at Michele again. She doesn’t know how to respond, simply opens everything of the situation and herself up to him.

**The Bad lady!? ‘** This child’ flares.

“Yes.”

Michele thinks maybe that is all she can do now, make sure that if Dagon abducts Kelly, that this child understands how evil Dagon is, that he _must not_ let Dagon twist him to her plans.

“She wants to use you to hurt everything good and right. You can’t let her. You have to be strong and brave.” She washes him in her love and belief, a trillion memories of the beauty of the world. The good he needs to hold on to.

“Run.” Castiel begs.

And Michele would have, in Kelly’s place, if only to lead the demon away from her two friends and the angel, but she was just an observer.

Kelly reached out and grabbed Castiel’s arm, shook her head. Michele felt the other woman’s determination, to stay and see it through.

“God please.”

(“Please God, save them!”)

Kelly and Michele’s cries seemed to come from one heart.

Kelly ran her hand down Castiel’s arm and twined her fingers through his.

“Aw! Adorbs!” Dagon mocked as she came to stand in front of the pair.

And suddenly Michele felt it… right here ‘this child’s’ power gathers, but there is also something else as well, something bigger and wiser. Something that understands in ways ‘this child’ just can’t. Michele knows this power intimately; it is the force that brought her and Kelly here…

As one Kelly and Michele turn (with this child and the other force that brought them here) and look up at Castiel.

Michele feels the power run through her, and Kelly and into the angel through their intertwined hands.

Golden light surges from Kelly to Castiel, up his arm and neck, lighting his eyes angelic blue, then warm gold.

Along with it comes images, some of them Michele recognises as the things she gifted this child… but more are like the visions she sees, only running too fast for her human mind to grasp.

Chased along by feelings, and a soothing balsam of love, certainty and rightness that the angel’s broken hurting psyche drinks up like the desert sucking up rain.

Somewhere distantly, Michele hears Sam calling out the angel’s name, and Dean yelling “No!” as Dagon reaches out a hand to smite the angel.

Easily now, Castiel reaches out and grabs the Prince of Hell’s arm, stopping her, the orange power flickers in her palm and dies.

“How –?” Dagon demands in shock.

“Call it a miracle.” The angel grates, his eyes glowing with that golden light.

Behind and over Castiel’s voice, Michele hears another voice saying the same words, it is a voice she somehow feels she had always known.

Almost as if kindled by the words, the Prince of Hell’s arm begins to smoke then her flesh bursts into flame.

Within moments the evil is consumed by fire.

Sam and Dean find their feet, staggering towards the woman and angel in shock.

“Cas?”

“What was that?” They demand.

“It was, um... It was me.” The angel answered. “But it was also…” he looked at Kelly and she lay a wondering hand over her child.

“You're hurt.” Castiel reached out to Dean, placing his hand over his friends splintered arm and healed it.

Dean jolted at the sudden shock of howling pain in his arm being —- just gone.

“Thank you for coming to fight for us.”

“Are you okay?” Dean asked staring at the angel wide eyed.

“I am.” The angel nodded; his eyes distant. “I've been so lost. I'm not lost anymore. And I know now that this child must be born with all of his power.”

“You can't actually mean that.” Sam breathed.

“Yes. I do.” Castiel looked to Kelly and smiled. “I have faith.” Kelly smiled back and the Winchester brothers were left exchanging glances.

“-We have to go.” The angel announced brushing by the younger Winchester.

“Hey, Cas, wait a second. Wait, hold on. Just –“Sam begged, trying to get Castiel to listen, to understand that none of this made sense.

“You have to just trust me.” Castiel answered serenely.

“No, no, no, wait. Okay, whatever that thing did to you, we're not just gonna let you walk away.” Dean flared.

“Yeah, that's not gonna happen.” Sam fumed and Kelly looked at them irritated, they still didn’t understand!

“Yes, it is.” Castiel answered gravely, reaching out he touched Sam’s forehead, and he slumped to the ground, unconscious.

“Don't…” Dean began as Castiel reached out and did the same to him.

For a second, Castile looked down at the two men, “I'm sorry.” He said simply, then turned and walks away, Kelly following.

Michele stayed rooted to the spot beside her fallen friends, until the vision ripped her away from them, tossing her back to her own place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N : Phew That was a really long chapter and I’d really appreciate some feed back from you fine folks on how I’m doing. Things are coming together.  
> The chapter title “I carried you.” Like so many of mine is supposed to be a double hitter. It’s the closing line of the well know but anonymous work “Footprints in the sand.” Which heck I mean… sandbox to heaven etc etc and the theme behind it … The idea that when life is the hardest… if we look back and see just one set of footprints it isn’t because we are alone… it is because those are the times when God will carry us…. If we let Him.  
> And also it is thus named because carrying is what they call it during that brief… sometimes too brief, time when your child lives inside of you.


	86. Adventures in Babysitting

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 86: Adventures in Babysitting**

The sun shines warm on his skin, Riot paces by his side panting, enjoying the day as only a dog can.

Sam took a breath, stepped onto a bridge, looked down at the water rushing below, then around.

“Amelia?” He called questioningly.

She told him she was here only minutes ago when she called.

But now she is nowhere in sight … his heart rate speeds a notch.

Anxiety and a feeling of confusion beat within him, wrongness skitters over his skin.

Where is she? Is she okay?  
The world isn’t safe, he can’t take anything for granted, even when the sun is shining…  
Even the sun isn’t sacrosanct or safe … he watched it dying… after Amara whammied Chuck…  
But they’d fixed it... Dean had gone … he’d thought that he’d lost him, again… but he hadn’t …  
  
But wasn’t all that… after all this… ??

Suddenly the mottled dog lifts his head, giving a soft woof, then takes off running.

“Riot!” He calls after the dog, whistling shrilly to call him back.

But the dog pays him no heed.

He runs after it; worried Riot will get hit by another car.

Sam turns into the clearing and sees the dog and Amelia sitting on a picnic rug…. Stops in his tracks…  
  
No… not Amelia and the dog…

He takes a step closer, realizing that it isn’t a dog, but a toddler sprawled out next to the brunette on the picnic blanket....

The woman isn’t Amelia… She’s smaller, more rounded, her brown hair longer with bangs that almost obscure her face, focused as she is on the kid next to her.  
The woman tips her head back and looks up.

Green eyes, glasses, freckled snub nose that scrunches up when she looks into the sun. 

Michele.

She smiles at him like she’s been waiting for him.

“Happy Birthday Sam!” She waves a hand towards a birthday cake, a scatter of brightly wrapped packages and clusters of food laid out, like a gameshow host showing a contestant what he’s won.

She looks so pleased with herself.

“What’s all this?” He asks taking another step closer.

“You’ve seen a birthday cake before, seriously Sam… _according to the lore…_ ” She smirks teasingly up at him from the blanket, “a family sings a song, shares cake, gives the birthday boy presents and just like that, the person in question is officially another year older …

Dean tried to convince me you’d rather a pie… but I’ve got his number.”

He feels a warm embarrassed surprise that she’s done this; wants to kneel down and wrap his arms round her in appreciation, but the sleeping child lies between them, giving him pause.

“Dean?” He asks instead, hands jammed in his pockets, shuffles his feet uncertainly.

“He’s playing soccer, _with the other kids._ ” She gestures towards an open field and the raucous yells he has totally failed to notice until now.

“Deans playing soccer?”

“Yip. And Cas, and your Mom…. And my horrible lot.

They left me holding the babies and guarding the food, not that I mind… Call them in will you. Let them know you’re here and that it’s time to eat.”

Sam wonders if she’ll make them say grace like Pastor Jim used to, finds he won’t mind if she does.

Suddenly the summer day is rent by a clarion wail, a baby crying, but Michele’s toddler hasn’t stirred.  
She tips him a rueful shrug, and leans over, dragging a large cane basket closer and peers inside.

“Speak of the devil.” She coos dotingly, reaching into the basket and lifts out a baby…. _Except it isn’t a baby…_ he can see under the glamour … see the glowing red eyes, the twisted, melted features… the wings.

The thing pretending to be a baby turns its head to look at him _and speaks_.

“Sammy!” it greets in a mocking tone, it has _his_ voice, Lucifer's voice.  
The thing reaches out towards him — Horrified he staggers back, away from it, and falls…

“Sam!” Something grabs at him and he hits out, impacting flesh.

“Sonofabitch!” Dean’s voice grates in annoyance.

“Sam! Come on man.

It’s just me.

Cas KOed us.”

Sam cracks open his eyes, to see Dean squatting in front of him, just out of reach. 

Realises he’s sprawled in the dirt, where he must have fallen after Cas zapped him.  
He’s been dreaming and now dawn is lighting the sky.

…ooo0ooo…

Crowley eyed his underling with a smirk.

“So how are you enjoying your return to the court Ronnie?”

The female demon’s scarlet painted lips thin, as she smooths back her shoulder length black hair primly.

“I prefer to go by Chirone, your majesty. Ronnie was something Ram— the Prince insisted on.”

“Ramiel.

Killed by his own weapon.” The King of Hell tuts disapprovingly.

“Still…so few survive a dose of Winchester! Rumor has it, even Death himself found them fatal.

I, of course, have foiled them multiple times...” He waves a hand airily. “The brothers Winchester and their various hangers on are like my hounds, Chirone. Useful in their place, but nigh on impossible to turn aside once they have a scent.”

“I wouldn’t know your majesty.” The demon’s pretty throat flutters with an aborted gulp.

“Oh?” Crowley raises an eyebrow. “I hear you are _quite_ fond of my hounds... But I digress.” He waves a hand breezily, “I called you here for multiple reasons, chiefly because you are one of the few to have spent time with our late lamented Prince. I was hopeful your experiences might supplement the efforts to track Dagon.”

The demoness slid from tense and ready to flee, back to smugly relaxed, in the space of a few sentences.

“Of course, I am more than willing to assist My Liege… Unfortunately, the Prince had few visitors. None of whom were Princes of Hell. He spent most of his time fishing, polishing his weapons and his _watch_.” The demoness allowed a thick thread of scorn to show through. “He was a dinosaur, completely uninterested in the affairs of Hell.” Chirone was not one to hide her contempt for her betters. Foolishly believing herself to be vastly more cunning than she actually was.

Crowley hummed good naturedly, it was no secret Ronnie had hated Ramiel and her enforced babysitting duty.

He turned away to pour two glasses of scotch, something very special he saves for underlings like this one.

The King of Hell turns back to the demon with his best favourite uncle smile. “So, I have been informed… yet my new dog tells me The Princes were created with a link to each other.” He hands her a glass.

“If your majesty says, it must be so. Your knowledge of the ancients is unsurpassed, you subdue all who oppose you,” she simpered.

“Sadly, the prince did not see fit to make _me_ privy to or speak of his communications with them if he did.

If there is any _other_ way my liege can think of for me to serve him, I would be most honoured.” The demoness licks her lips giving him a smouldering smile and holds his eyes with sinful promise as she raises her glass.

Crowley watches with a lascivious smirk as Chirone takes a deep swallow from her glass, begins gagging, choking and spluttering.

The scotch was laced with salt, holy water and a special concoction of his own invention, one that prohibits a demon setting aside pain.

It is truly beautiful, the way her wounded shock at being poisoned gives way so swiftly to the realisation that _he knows_!

“Manete.” He flicks a hand, casting one of his bitch Mother’s spells. Watches with real appreciation as smoke roils between Chirone’s rouged lips.

The overconfident little bint sat frozen in place; could do little more than gasp and roll her beetle black eyes.

Turning away Crowley picks up the binding link brand he prepared earlier, dragged her chair round to face him with a gesture, and brought the brand down squarely, searing the sigil into the demoness’ left eye.

Stood breathing in the smell of burnt flesh appreciatively. Waited patiently for demon’s Chirone’s wail to die down, leant over and spoke directly into the shell of her ear.

“I always love that moment when the traitor realises how truly buggered they are, don’t you?” He asks casually.

Pulling back to look her in the eyes. “No…” he smirks, “I suppose _you_ wouldn’t.”

“You see Ronnie, when the Men of Letters sent Mother Winchester to fetch _that gun_ , the one that only a very select group of individuals knew was in Ramiel’s possession; it became apparent I had a traitor on the pay roll.  
That said traitor was _You_ was hardly an astounding leap of logic.

I was the one that sent you to liaise with the Bloody Men of Letters, for that ballsup where their so called best hunter failed _miserably_ to kill a certain ginger haired Witch bitch...”

He removed the laced glass of scotch from her frozen hand carefully and set it aside.

“If you’d left it at removing Ramiel, I _might have_ let it slide... But then, _then_ it came to my ears that the British Men of Letters were expecting to take possession of another item, one that I and I alone own!” He spat.

“How dare you, think you could steal from ME, you back stabbing little bitch!” He grabbed a fistful of the demon’s hair and wrenched her head back, bellowing into her face.

Sent the traitorous bitch flying across the room, lashed out with a satisfying rush of fury.

“I am going to spend some very messy and educational time, helping you _fully_ comprehend how right you were… I subdue everyone who opposes me!” He chuckled darkly.

“Then— I’m going to leave you alive, for two reasons. So you can spread the word to the rest the morons that I ALWAYS find out, you’re immensely lucky that Moose and Squirrel cleaned up your mess. Or your torment … would be unending. Get this straight. I do not approve of the creative approach.

You _will_ contact the Men of Letters and inform them that your price has changed.”

He stalks forward as his underling quails helpless on the floor.

“What your heart _truly_ desires now, is _information on all the protective warding they use …_ you will explain how you are suddenly consumed with a dose of justly earned mortal terror of ME.  
And. Need. To. Bury. Yourself. In. Some. Deep. Dark. Fully. Warded. Hole!” He punctuates each word with a vicious kick to her face.

The King of Hell’s eyes flashed red as he sneered down at the demon on the floor. “I trust by the time you’re — fully educated... there will be very little _acting_ required.” The red drained from his eyes, leaving them a warm hazel once more.

“I subdued the Devil, you puerile little twat.

You are nothing!

Less than nothing!

Your entire existence beyond this point _depends_ on getting a legitimate copy of that warding for me.

Have I made myself blazingly, undeniably, crystal clear?!”

The demon at his feet could do little more than gasp and whimper her agreement.

The King of Hell smiled to himself, stooped and buffed the blood off the toe of his testoni with a handful of Chirone’s hair.

Removing his jacket and tie, he rolled up his shirt sleeves, opened his desk draw, and took out an array of implements and a butcher’s apron which he kept for these _special moments._

Languidly he contemplated how to begin, drawing out the moment, letting the traitor linger on the expectation of pain to come, and her memories of past educations on the rack. 

It had been far too long since he had made time to … express his creativity.

…ooo0ooo…

“Sam!” Looking at the hunter’s face on her cell-phone screen, Michele belatedly realised that the Winchesters probably wouldn’t care about her vision of Crowley.

“...Are you okay?”

Sam’s mouth quirked, and he leaned his head back against the seat. “What did you see?” he asked with a small frown.

“Kelly, Castiel… Dagon… she threw you into that bench and … How bad are you hurt?”

“Unfrickin’ believable. That’s what she’s worried about? Sammy getting’ a boo boo.” Dean snarked.

“Dean.” Sam huffed shaking his head at his brother.

“Dagon snapped your arm, but _I saw_ Castiel _fix you_.  
The Colt got melted but that’s just a _thing,_ which either can or can’t be fixed.  
Dagon‘s dead.  
Castiel and Kelly are heaven knows where—

So _yes,_ my first concern is going to be how badly banged up Sam is, Dean.  
Not because Sam is my favourite but _because_ his back hit that bench hard enough to turn it to kindling.

An impact like that could cause a spinal fracture. One that gets missed because of all the other pain—”

“Michele, I’m fine.”

“Anything short of death gets written off with you two.” She huffed glaring at the screen. “Seriously Sam, I’m a girl, I know what, ‘I’m fine means.”

Dean barked a laugh. “Sammy speaks girl, yeah.

Relax Mitch, I checked, not a mark on him, guess Cas mojoed him when he did the night-night thing.”

“Oh…”

Sam smiled at her. “I really _am_ fine.”

“Oh… uh, Good!” she nodded to herself.  
Then took a breath, bracing for the next thing.

“I also had a vision of Crowley.” She tried to repress a shudder, feeling the rush of the horror again. “One of his demons betrayed him. He manoeuvred her like it was a game, trapped her, helpless, b-branded one of her _eyes_ … b-beat her and t-tort—...” She shuddered to a stop, too sickened to say more; wiped at her welling eyes. Hating that they probably thought she was weak, soft and childish, but she couldn’t help it.

Every demon’s meat-suit was someone’s daughter or son.

“Michele hey, hey. No… It’s okay. You don’t need to… Michele… hey com’on d-don’t...” Sam tried to soothe her. Watching her with anxious Labrador eyes.

She shook her head stubbornly, realising she hadn’t told them anything that mattered.

Took another breath and lifted her chin. “The traitor sold information to the Men of Letters about Ramiel and the Colt. She was going to sell them something else of Crowley’s, too.”

Sam’s eyes cut sideways to Dean. She realised belatedly, that Sam hadn’t told Dean, that their mother had stolen the Colt from Ramiel for the Men of Letters.

Sam’s eyes met hers through the screen.

“Seriously?” Dean vented from the drivers’ seat. “Limey sonsofbitches, lookin’ down their noses at us, going on about their precious code, saying we’re the ones palling round with frickin demons, an’ they’re doing the exact same thing.”

Sam didn’t comment, his eyes hooded.

“Crowley tried to get the Men of Letters to kill Rowena somehow. That’s how the traitor began feeding them information.”

Sam hummed in the back of his throat.  
“Yeah sounds like Crowley, playing all the angles.” He pinched at the bridge of his nose, running a palm down his face, and studied her looking speculative

“How are you?” He asked, brow pinched into a frown.

The way he was looking at her made self conscious, she rubbed at her mouth and nose wondering if she still had blood on her face.

“I’m okay, glad to be home. Phil’s been hovering and driving me a bit spare, he’s a fixer by nature, but he can’t fix _this_ , so I get it.  
I wish I could just tell him _why_ … but, well, why’s not something I have an answer to … and it’d just freak him out more…so…” she shrugged helplessly.

“He’s distracting himself hacking up plywood in the lounge, with a circular saw, at the moment. That’s the awful noise incidentally.” She knew she was babbling, but between Crowley and the way Sam was looking at her, she felt flustered.

“… pretty much every time he’s off work and stuck at home, he starts in on some DIY project, usually with a major dose of destructive over kill. Sawdust, nails, screws and power tools everywhere...

He’s forever saying he wants to take out the wall between the lounge and kitchen. And I’m forever saying hell no! That wall’s load bearing!… If he had a grenade launcher like you do… I’d be scared to leave him home unsupervised!” She dropped her eyes, “not that that’s an issue currently, he’s sorta scared to leave _me_ unsupervised right now… But that’s life, we all go through it. Anyway, I ought to let you go. I guess the fact that Crowley’s evil isn’t really news to you. I’m glad you’re both okay, things with Cas, Kelly and this child they’ll work out okay. Luv you two—“

“No, hey Michele, wait on a sec, a-about **_why_** — we kinda have an answer about that. And we… I…” Sam stopped and chewed at his lower lip, almost nervously. “You do want to know right? … If you don’t … I mean, I’d understand… I don’t have too tell you now, it can wait til...”

“Quit it, Sammy!” Dean snorted.

“Mitch you _were_ born a prophet, well, you know if heaven had flipped your switch.

But this group of asshole angels were freaking out about the special kids Azazel was makin’,” Sam let out a huffing breath and turned the camera on to his brother as Dean spoke. “They tried to make their own mega soldiers usin’ angelic grace. Feeding babies angel grace, makes ‘em explode though. So, they took a page outta Azazel’s play book, added demon blood to the mix… It worked, well kinda.

With you.

You didn’t explode. So, score.

You’re a Prophilion. A sorta artificial Prophet, Nephilim, Cambion mix. The good news is we think doing a grace extraction on you might fix your bleeding thing.

The bad news— you’re Sammy’s cousin by demon blood.

Sorry about that kiddo, bein’ related to Sammy in any way ... it ain’t no picnic.” Dean gave her a rueful grin and a shrug.

“Sam…?!” She asked, frowning and tried to understand what Dean had just told her. “I was supposed to be a weapon?”

“Yeah… umm yeah… apparently t-that’s what Cas said.”

“Are you sure? I mean I’m… I’m the girl that can’t even bare to kill the mice that the mousetrap doesn’t finish off.”

“I know it’s a lot to take in…” Sam looked weirdly upset as he looked back into the camera.

“It’s okay Sam… I mean … it’s uh … cousin? Which, which… demon … not Azazel? How did they…”

“Ramiel.” Dean answered for his brother again, “an’ the angel was Gadreel…”

“The one that ….” The one that let Lucifer into the garden? The one that worked for Metatron, possessed Sam … and killed Kevin while in Sam’s body?!! “Oh…” she blinked. “Sam are _you_ okay? I mean…” 

…ooo0ooo…

Sam stared at Michele, she looked perplexed but calm… weirdly calm.

He’d have thought there’d be tears or denial, maybe some anger.

“Sam are _you_ okay? I mean …” Was he okay???!! Why was she worried about him right now? They’d _told her_ Cas fixed his collision with the bench... then he realized, she meant because of Gadreel … that was, yeah that was...

Then he watched her face drain of color.

“Ohhh Hell—“ she moaned softly, covering her mouth “I- I donated blood for years — this demon blood thing, the grace… is… is it transmissible?” It hit him that he’d never once considered that. He’s donated both blood and plasma so many times, in College, even after, on the road, money was often tight, and it was a way to earn a few bucks...to help people. 

“I… I don’t know. I don’t think so, I’ve never — uhh thought about it.”

She stared at him from the screen with wide worried eyes, clearly not reassured by his answer.

Then her face crumpled. “Johnny and Chris … my boys, is that why? Sam is that why they’re … _different_.  
I-I mean they say autism’s genetic, but some of the things, about Johnny especially … they never fitted and… what if, _what if,_ it’s because…” She broke off with a whimper like a wounded animal.  
“Johnny, Johnny he practically drank _my blood_ in the beginning because he didn’t latch properly, and they said a baby gets his antibodies from his mother’s milk … t-they said t-to just feed t-through it if I c-could, t-that he’d j-just get more _iron_. W-what if, w-what if _Sam_ … ”


	87. Lost and Found

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 87: Lost and Found**

Dean slumped in his chair and stared at his hands, feeling too deflated to even get up and walk across the library for a beer.

He glanced to where Sam sat, slouched at the table looking equally cut adrift.

Sam was still clutching the chemise wrapped bits of the Colt, had been since the park.

He chewed at an already ragged nail studying his little brother critically, the way Sam’d been dragging the pieces round, like a snot nosed kid with his teddy bear, really bugged him.

_God_ , how had this happened?

Ever since Cas reappeared from being AWOL in heaven, everything’d been like one of those dreams, the ones where nothing made sense, and everyone acted hinkey.

A little hand holding gave Cas enough juice to torch Dagon. Which’d be great news, if Cas hadn’t suddenly turned into a pro-Nephilim, faith boy, unwilling to listen to sense.

The power-up Kelly’s kid zapped him with had to be the reason for his abrupt U-turn. Must’ve brain washed him or something.

Who said you couldn’t catch something just by holding hands with a girl?

The power’s sort of looked like when Delphine and Lucifer tapped into the hands of God, same color, spidered along the angel’s veins in the same way; Cas’d been so hopped up on the power … unpleasantly reminiscent of when the stupid jackass had decided to down the contents of purgatory, and dubbed himself ‘the new god.’ 

Dean pulled his hand away from his mouth, realizing what he was doing.

Dad’d always got on his case over nail chewing; they spent way too much time with gross crap under their nails in the job, and it was the worst kind of tell.

He clenched the offending nail inside a fist. Breathed a breath and looked across at Sammy again.

He had to break the silence, forced himself to his feet and paced over to where Sam sat.

“Okay, so last night...that Super Mario power-up crap? That wasn't Cas. That freaking baby isn't even born yet and it sock puppeted him. _Think about it.  
_ Cas said that he had faith in Lucifer Junior? _What the hell_ is that supposed to mean?”

Sam shook his head in response, jaw clenched with frustration, turned red rimmed eyes up to him.

“I don't know.” He said, “I mean, look, this doesn't make any sense to me either, Dean.  
But if we wanna have some shot at finding Cas, the we have to...I don’t know…” He gestured widely, nostrils all flared with his distress. “Uh, try and think like him?”

  


“How?  
Seriously. I mean up until now if Cas messed up, if he did something wrong, but he thought it was for the right reasons, I got it, right?” Dean paced about as he spoke, couldn’t stay still now that he’d broken inertia. “But last night, when I looked at him, I did not recognize the guy staring back at me.” He stopped himself, anger and frustration trembling through his frame as he stared at Sammy; totally at a loss.

Sam made no reply.

Turned to open the bundle of chemise and look again at the pieces of the Colt.

They stared at the wreckage, looking at it made him feel more deflated, hands flat on the table, Dean leaned in for a closer look.  
As well as being bent and broken, many of the inscriptions were melted and obscured. He _might_ be able to fix the metal, but it was the hoodoo that gave the gun it’s value. He felt guilt clench in his gut.

  
"Can you fix it?” He asked Sam looking away.

Sam picked up the piece still attached to the grip and peered at it.

“…I …hope so...”

There was the sound of a cell phone vibrating.

Sam at patted his pocket.

“It's not me.” He looked at Dean questioningly.

“It's not me.” He frowned back at Sam … looking around.

…..

It took a them a while to locate the source.

Finally Sam found the cheap burner phone tucked underneath a book, held it up for Dean to see.

“Must be one of Mom's?”

“Hello?” He answered it, listened for a moment, frowning.

“Alicia? Hey, what's going on?”

“Like Max and Alicia?” Dean asked, confused by why one of Asa Fox’s witch-Hunter twins would be calling.

“Yeah.” Sam put the phone onto speaker.

“Yeah, sorry to um...Uh, Mary gave me a couple different numbers to reach her, and we thought –“ the girl said.

Dean could hear Max in the background disagreeing with his sister.

Alicia sighed “-- _I thought..”_ She revised, _“_ Mary would be down to help. Uh, be our backup on this, um...”

“ _You sound crazy_.” Max groused from the background.

“Hey, guys. It's Dean. Uh, you okay?”

“Yeah, depends who you ask.” Alicia muttered, “Um, Mom was hunting this witch who's killed people all over Wyoming. Uh, anyway, Mom usually checks in with us, but she's sort of disappeared.”

“ _Oh, my god_. She did not disappear. _She's bu-sy._ ” Max sniped at his sister, again. 

Dean rolled his eyes “Wait, so – so your mom _is_ missing?”

“Where are you guys?” Sammy cut in.

“We're on our way to Rock River, Wyoming. Max thinks I'm overreacting, but I –“

“Because you're being _dramatic_. Mom's fine. Stop bothering them.”

“Fine. _Okay_.  
Hey, we'll be ok. Uh, never mind.”

“No, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. Um...” Sam looked across quickly at him, and gestured between them.

Dean stared at him in surprise as he continued. “Hey, why don't you text us your address? We'll meet you.”

Dean rolled his eyes in disbelief, a disbelief that both twins appeared to share.

But Sam hung up with a promise to see them soon, turned to face him.

“What the hell man? What about Cas?!” Dean flared.

“Dude, Cas ditched his cell phone. ...Look, Jody put an APB out for Cas and Kelly across three states.”

Dean eyed his brother unhappily.

“Until that shakes something loose, or we get some …other break…” He noted Sam’s slight hesitation, he got it, “…all we're doing is – is sitting here, banging our heads against a brick wall.” This wasn’t about Max and Alicia’s Mom; this was just busy work. One of Sam’s favourite things to do when he was stewing… and Dean would bet the gas money it wasn’t _just_ about Cas.

“Let's get out there. Let's...” Sam sighed, and Dean could tell he was reaching to bring out some emotional bullshit “…Their Mom's on a hunting trip and hasn't been home in a week.”

Dean tilted his head, asking Sam silently if he was _really_ gonna play _that one_ , just to avoid whatever the hell was going on in his head. This _had_ to be as much over Mitch, and some of those geek questions she’d stirred up from the crap at the bottom of the demon blood pond, as it was over Cas…

But who was he, Dean Winchester, world class screwup and avoider, to throw stones? 

He nodded and looked away. “All right. Let's go.”

Sam turned, walking out to pack, restock, or try dig up some info, leaving Dean standing there, thinking about Sam’s Hobbit. The poor girl had been so gutted, thinking she might have infected her kid with some second hand way, been to blame... cursed him...

Was that what was getting to Sam, the uncomfortable parallel? A kid paying the price for his Mom’s crap...?

Or was it the differences?

Thinking about Mom…

Dean pulled out his phone.

Yeah, he should call Mom… After all Alicia and Max had been trying to get ahold of her, he and Sam just fielded the call by default.

….

The phone rang for a bit, then cut to messages.

“This is Mary. Leave a message.” Short and to the point.

“Mom. Hey, uh, just wanted to let you know that, uh, me and Sam, we uh, we're heading out on a case with those witch twins, uh, Max and Alicia. Um, I'll text you the info, but, uh...I know the Brits have got you running nonstop. So, if you can help out, that'd be great. Um... and even if you can't swing by… can you call me back? Just some stuff going down that's... kind of got me spun out. Be good to talk to you.”

Dean hung up, wondering if he sounded as needy and pathetic in the message as he thought he did.

He eyed his phone again, felt an urge to call Mitch and tell her they were heading out.

Check that she was doing okay, with the news they’d dumped on her.

Maybe he could ask her if she had any prophet-y insight on Cas. If she’d seen anything that might help them track down the angel again.  
  
But he shook off the urge …If Mitch saw anything, she’d call, and considering what they’d dumped on her, the woman probably needed some space; she had more than enough to worry about.

He shoved the phone back into his pocket.

…ooooOoooo...

Dean sat on the overstuffed antique sofa, drinking _red wine_ and wondering how he’d let himself get talked _into this_.

It turned out the witch twins Mom wasn’t _actually_ missing, and now he was sitting here, watching the twins and their Mom, banter, while waiting for Sam to get back with an order of _vegan food_ (which better come with a side order of double bacon cheese burger and beer, or Sam was gonna be hitching back to Lebanon.)

Dean had spent most of his life people watching.

Always the outsider trying to find an in.

At all those schools, into one chick or another’s pants… and of course _always_ hunting.

Hunting had a lot in common with being a con artist; you worked out the _in._

With the witness, the coroner, law enforcement and anyone else that stood between you and stopping the current monster of the week.

But beyond that, Dean had always enjoyed watching people, working out the dynamics of the lives he drifted through.

Watching Tasha Banes with the twins it wasn’t hard to see how much the three of them cared for each other.

Max and Alicia bickered and competed for their Mom’s attention, but it was soft edged, without any real heat, more a dance than a contact sport. Different from how things’d between him and a teenaged Sam, at round the same age.

The reason sat to one side, smiling at the twins in affectionate amusement.

Tasha Banes, every time one of the twins looked like they’d push the other a step too far, she’d step in with humour or a few choice words that rebalanced things.

It’s a Mom thing, Dean knows that. Mitch does the same thing between him and Sam, _all the time._

Thinking of Mom’s, Dean pulls his phone out and checks his messages.

Swallows back disappointment, seeing Mom hasn’t called him back.

Tasha sits down next to him on the couch.

She’s smiling; all affectionate exasperation at Max and Alicia, as they continue to argue good naturedly across the room.

“Expecting a call?” She asks.

“Oh…” he shoves his phone back in his pocket guiltily, “guess not.”

Tasha sips at her wine and smiles, he picks up his wine glass and takes another mouthful, smiling a trifle uncomfortably in return.

“You know, I gotta say, you did a bang-up job with those two.” He gestures towards the twins, who are now squabbling over Max borrowing Alicia’s Jeep.

“You must be drunk.” Their Mom demurs, love and exasperation equally apparent in her tone.

“Off of wine?” He laughs scornfully.

“Yeah.” She smiles and tilts her head, “I did the best I could for Max and Alicia…”

“No.” He disagrees, what he sees is more than that.

Max and Alicia are hunters, but they’re also _kids_ , in a way him and Sam never got a chance to be.

“I got lucky…” she shrugs.

“I see how you are with them, all right? _It's good._ You know, they're—They're happy.”

“Alicia said you grew up in the life?”

“Yeah. Yeah, my dad raised me and Sam, to hunt.”

“And your mother?”

Dean looks away, “That's… complicated,” he says.

Tasha chuckles and turns to look at her kids. “Yeah. Family's _always_ complicated.  
Parents always seem smart and strong and perfect. It's only when you grow up that you realize that they're just people…” She gave him an earnest smile, then patted his arm and got back up and wandered back over to referee her bickering kids.

Dean stared pensively at the little family in front of him, feeling an ache of loss, memories of the fake life the djinn offered him so many years ago rose in his mind like an unquiet spirit.

He remembers staring at a headstone his Dad never had, and asking why, why him and Sam couldn’t have what everyone else had, why they had to sacrifice. But it’s more than that, why can’t they have even a small bit of what he sees in front of him, _even with Mom back, they still can’t have it.  
_ It makes him wonder what the hell’s wrong with him and Sam.

…oooOooo...

Sam jumped at the chance to go into town and collect the food.

Ever since events in the park with Kelly, Cas and Dagon, he’s felt … disempowered.

Then, when they told Michele what she was (Dean had done most of the telling) …

God, she’d looked so alone; wracked with guilt.

Guilt that she didn’t deserve. All he’d wanted was to pull her into his arms and hold her like he’d done with Eileen.

But Michele was out of reach.

He felt so useless, so powerless lately.

When he tried to use words to sooth her, tried to tell her that if the demon blood and grace had affected her kid -which she couldn’t know-. She shouldn’t carry that guilt round; she’d just looked at him, kitten eyes filled with something close to pity, and told him that he didn’t understand ~ Feeling guilty for that sort of stuff was what parents, _what Mother’s_ did.

That Dean might get it, but he, Sam couldn’t, because he’d always been the kid in the equation.

He’d wanted to scoff at that, she was more of a kid than he was! So damn sweet and innocent it was frightening.

But when he turned to Dean, expecting him to be scoffing too, Dean had dipped his head, and looked away…

Michele hadn’t meant anything by it, not really.

She was upset, he was sure she only focused on the maybes with her kid’s autism, as a way to avoid dealing with the other ramifications.

But, maybe he was wrong. Sometimes the gulf between them seemed more than the distance between countries, all he wanted was to help her, but words, just words _hadn’t_ helped.

It left him feeling frustrated by the impotence of the situation.

So, when Alicia called, he’d jumped at the chance to do something, _to help someone._

But the case turned out to be nothing, he’d convinced Dean to drive 7 hours, for nothing.

Expecting Dean to sit and drink wine and eat vegan food with a witch, tonight, would be pushing his brother one step too far.

So, he’d got beer on the way in, and had his sights set on finding a double bacon cheeseburger with extra onions, which was _always_ a Dean approved peace offering. 

Luckily there was one of Dean’s favored hole in the wall burger joints right next to the Vegan place.

….

As he returned to the car with the food; he saw it, taped to a telegraph pole.

A missing flyer for a man called Rick Walsh.

Sam was sure, the man in the picture was the same one they’d all seen coming out of the root cellar at the B&B.  
The one who was _a little too interested, in their arrival_ and how they’d been looking at Tasha’s car. It could be an old flier, Walsh might just have resurfaced after a misunderstanding; but Sam had learned, coincidence was rarely coincidence on a Hunt.

ooOooo...

Michele is in the kitchen, baking cupcakes, a treat for the lunchboxes.

Her oldest kids are at school and her maddeningly overprotective husband and pre-schooler have, _ever so reluctantly,_ left her home alone. For the earth-shattering amount of time it will take to drive to the hardware store, buy screws and drive home.

Humming to herself, she bends and slides the first two trays of filled cupcake liners into the oven to bake.

Behind her, someone clears their throat, as if asking for attention.

“Seriously?” She mutters, annoyed. Phil really needs to quit hovering and treating her like she can’t be left unsupervised for 20 minutes… he’s going to drive her bonkers.  


She turns to tell him just that.

Instead of her husband, Crowley, King of Hell, stands in her kitchen doorway, smirking at her.

"Hello Darling, love your work.”


	88. Little Chats

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 88: Little Chats**

Crowley studied the woman in contempt, usually Sam and Dean Winchester had some taste, this one well… she was another brunette, like Sarah Whatever, the one he’d hexed to make a point back in the day; when the Hell trials were the game de jour.

Moose’s standards must have slipped a bit, this brunette looked a bit frayed round the edges, needed the attentions of a salon, a stylist and gym membership. And to top it off, apparently had the survival instincts of a dodo; a demon pops into her bleeding kitchen and she’s too busy with her baked goods to notice.

He cleared his throat impatiently, watched her turn, obviously expecting someone else.

“Hello darling, love your work.”

Upon seeing him, her eyes seemed to grow to twice their size behind the lenses of her glasses, face blanching as her lips formed his name in shock.

Authentic terror at the mere sight of him, lovely!

He watched her back away until she hit the wall behind her.

“The look on your face Pet. Surely you didn’t think your little tryst with Moose and Squirrel would go unnoticed.”

The little church mouse took a shaky breath. “N-not a tryst. H-how did you find out about me, Was it Rowena?”

“Mother? Hardly… she probably still thinks mother Winchester is psychic.” He scoffed, poking his finger into the bowl of chocolate cupcake batter on the counter, he licked it clean nonchalantly. “Not bad.” He complimented her mildly.

The woman’s mouth twitched. “So, you’re here to kill me?” There was no stammering this time, just that little chin lift, he’d read about. Under everything, there was a bit of steel there, good.

“Straight down to business, I like that. I could kill you, snap my fingers - easiest thing imaginable. But … you’re the goose that lays the golden eggs. Killing you would be a waste.

What I really want to -- how the story ends.”

“I don’t know.” 

“Of course.” He waved a hand “But you can give me a few spoilers, can’t you? Where are Kelly Kline and that infernal Nephilim. Where’s the gate to heaven.”

“I don’t know. My visions don’t come with GPS locations …I haven’t seen her, or Castiel, not since Cas killed Dagon.” Crowley fought the urge to raise an eyebrow at that. So, Cassie boy had got to use that other bullet, good for him. Wouldn’t do to let on that she was telling him new news.

“…Besides, why would I tell you? You’re a demon too.”

“That’s racist, Love. I help. I’m practically part of the Scooby gang these days.”

She gave him a look. “I’m not your love, you’re a demon! You’re evil, you kill…”

“I kill? I kill? You bleeding little hypocrite.”

Striding forward he caught her round the throat and tightened his grip momentarily until he could feel her pulse jackrabbiting wildly in his hand.

“Your favourite flannel clad _heroes,”_ he spat the words down into her face, “sent _my son_ off to die on that boat. They’re killers too, don’t delude yourself. And you… do you know what you did, by clueing Kelly’s spawn in to Mummy dearests little suicide attempt…”

Storing away his rage which had bubbled to the surface, he dropped his hand away from her throat and tucked a few wispy strands of the woman’s hair behind her ear and patted her cheek lightly.

Turning his back on her, and sauntered over to dip his finger into the cupcake batter again.

“I helped! Stop the bleeding apocalypse, kill Dick Roman, raise Dean from the dead. I helped! Remove the mark of Cain, stop the Darkness, save God, track down Lucifer, I’ve saved Castiel more times...“ He barked an exasperated laugh cutting himself off. “Why am I explaining to the likes of you? _You think_ Lucifers spawn can be rehabilitated. _You think_ the Winchesters or _Chuck_ are going to sweep in and save the day.”

The woman was silent for a long while, then sighed. “Thank you, Crowley.” She spoke softly. Her words made him smile, she was the easiest mark he’d ever played.

“Thank you, _even if_ you were Lilith’s right-hand man, the one that talked Castiel into plundering purgatory. Talked Dean into taking the mark of Cain. Tried to use Amara …” He raised an eyebrow. So she wasn’t quite the easy a mark as he’d thought…

“Thank you, because while you may be self serving and manipulative and you’re _always_ working an angle …. there have been times… when you’ve chosen to help rather than hurt. Thank you for those moments. And... I am sorry, about Gavin.”

He shrugged uncomfortably unbalanced by the unexpected offer of condolence and empathy. “Kids these days, you work them to the bone, beat them nightly, go out of your way to teach them wrong from right… then they turn into sodding ultraists when your back’s turned. I never should have taught the idiot to read.”

Behind him the kitchen drawer opened, he braced himself waiting for an irate hobbit to come barreling at him with a knife.

“Here,” she offered, holding out a teaspoon “don’t stick your fingers in the bowl, your vessel’s dead isn’t it? … that’s sort of gross if you think about it, and not very sanitary.”

Nonplussed he took the spoon from her automatically, scooped up some more of the cupcake batter and stared at it. “You do realise you’re bonkers? I can snap your neck.” He clicked his fingers, “like that, and you’re worried about germs.”

“You said you weren’t going to kill me.” She answered tensely, retreated and began doing something with pieces of chocolate in another bowl. It was an act, he could see her hands shaking.

“The Supernatural books indicate you keep your word more often than angels or Winchesters.” She said all timorous and hopeful.

“Thank you! Fancy clueing Gigantor in to your findings.”

She peeked a look at him again.

“Why are you here Crowley? What do you want… Most people review if they want to comment on my writing, and I doubt you came for the cupcakes… I really don’t know anything that will help anyone find ‘this child.’… So why are you, the King of Hell, standing in my kitchen.”

“You are a Prophet, a Nephilim and Cambion rolled into one pocket sized package…”

Her little bow mouth turned down. “No, I’m not, not really…The angels screwed up… what ever they were going for, some sort of super strong angelic warrior or whatever. What they got was pretty much the equivalent of post-it note glue! My super-powers consist of headaches, leaking blood and writing _fanfiction_... let’s face it... I’m useless.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a vial of freshly squeezed demon blood. “I might be able to help with that… Moose could do all sorts of nifty tricks after a few nips of the good stuff. I’m sure it will pep you right up.”

Her eyes fixed on the vial, got wide and startled. He watched her, smiling to himself. There truly was nothing better than the moment a soul fell from grace.

He waggled it temptingly. “Come on Poppet, a few nips and you’ll **_really_** be one of the good guys, you won’t be stuck whispering in Sam’s ear and hoping he’ll do what you ask.  
You won’t be sitting on the bench wringing your hands and writing half seen visions.”

“No!  
You’re going to tell me the ends justify the means. But they don’t, It’s the same story from the beginning, ‘eat the apple Eve, if you have the knowledge of good and evil, if you have more power…it will all be _better_.’ But that’s a lie, more power has only ever made things _worse_. I don’t need or want the power. If I’m supposed to do something, God, not a demon in a fancy suit, will give me what I need.”

With a flick of his, he slammed her back against the wall again.

“No? No?! You don’t get to turn _me_ down. I’m the bleeding King of Hell, Missy. That means I go where I want, I do what I want. When I say jump, they all ask how high, on the way up. You don’t say ‘no’ to me are we clear. If I want you to drink the bloody cool aid… you drink!”

“Please… no…” She struggled pointlessly and he just stared at her for a moment, enjoying the tableau of her held in the grip of his power, hair hanging down over her face. Pleas just the squeaking of a mouse, trapped between a hungry lion’s paws.

Then suddenly, something changed, her head lifted, her eyes filled with gold light and blood began dripping slowly from her nose.

“Crowley, I can’t let you do this.”

The grip of his power broke, he found himself held motionless.

“Matthew 18:6, If anyone causes one of these little ones—those who believe in me—to stumble, it would be better for them to have a large millstone hung around their neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea… Not that drowning would do much to you, a demon, but you get the general idea.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “Let me guess Sam’s snookems isn’t home right now.  
Who are you then?”

“We have met before.  
If you don’t know me, that is because you do not wish to know me.  
I am that I am.”

Along with the glowing eyes, the woman’s voice had changed, had lost its colonial twang.

“The question you really need to ask yourself, is who _you_ are. And _what_ you really want. I am the beginning and the end.  
Your end is coming Crowley. You have choices to make. Soon your sins will find you out. A time is coming when all your plans will fall to nothing; when you find yourself hiding with the rats. No matter how you play it YOU can’t win the game you have begun, and the wages of sin are death.”

“So, you, whoever you are, you’re threatening to kill me? The glowing eyes are a nice touch, and the blood reminds me of a Japanese horror flick. But let me give you some advice, the threats — they’d be more convincing if you weren’t borrowing lines from a Sunday sermon.”

The woman’s hijacker tilted her head again. “Crowley, I am not threatening you. I am not willing that any should perish, even you.”

“Really? Here’s your flaw. I’m a demon Love. I ‘perished’ years ago. As for the wages of sin being death?  
I’ve already spent my wages Darling.  
I bought myself a Kingship with them.”

Allowing red to seep into his eyes, he pretended nonchalance as he struggled against the power that held him fast.

The smile she favoured him with, in response resembled one the very old give the very young. Unwillingly Crowley found it chilling, combined as it was with the glowing eyes and blood trailing down her chin.

“That was your choice Crowley, I’m all about giving people the right to their choices. I only ask you do the same… well not ask, really. I have to insist… I’ll explain why…” The woman stepped closer, brought her small hands up to cradle his face and pull it down as she went up on her tiptoes and kissed his lips.

ooOoo

With a strangled cry of dismay, the demon lurched away from the horror that was currently sharing space with a pint-sized hobbit housewife; his mind scurrying futilely, trying to find an escape like a rat, in a sinking ship.  
Between one moment and the next, the millions of paths, the millions of choices and end points, he’d seen began to blur together and slide out of his grasp; leaving only tangled unease.

The woman lifted a handkerchief, his handkerchief, to her face and wiped away the blood.

“I’m sorry… I said I would explain, but you were never made to hold on to the answers.” She pressed the handkerchief into his hand, then patted his cheek lightly, he couldn’t help flinching away.

“So many arguments over free will versus predestination, it’s amusing really...” She smiled again and shook her head.

Licking at his lips nervously, Crowley tasted the salt and iron of her blood, balled the handkerchief in his fist and stuffed it into his pocket, smoothed the front of his suit jacket. Watched warily as the woman backed away from him until her back was against the wall once more.

She dropped her head, hair falling forward to veil her face, exactly as it had previously. Behind the curtain of her hair he saw the gold light die from her eyes and the power that had held him captive ceased.

oo000oo

“Please, don’t do this Crowley. Please…” The little writer begged.

The demon blinked and glanced at the bottle still resting in his hand. Frowning.  
Yes… it occurred to him suddenly, force feeding Moose’s cyber snookums demon blood might possibly be short sighted.  
She was supposed to be some sort of artificial Nephilim-Cambion cross, if he powered her up against her will, who knew what she might do, he doubted she’d send him a gift basket of muffins for his troubles.

And then there were the Winchester’s… Moose seemed invested in his girlfriend and Dean... The Winchester’s might only be a couple of humans, but, no one did vengeance quite like Winchesters.

The only beings that got away with causing the death of the Winchesters friends, were of course, the Winchesters themselves.

Case in point, if the dumbass duo had been a tad more careful with their security, neither he, nor the others, would know anything about her…

He closed his hand around the bottle of demon blood, disappeared it into his pocket like a magician.

“Well since you asked so nicely, there’s no need to rush things. You will be a dear and let me know if you hear anything about Feathers or Lucifer’s love child, won’t you?” He placed one of his business cards down on the countertop.

“I...”

“You will,” he informed her with a quelling smile.

“Oh, and Poppet? We wouldn’t want anything to happen to young Johnny, now would we? He’s such a scrumptious young thing, a paedophiles’ dream really, so very fragile and _such_ pretty eyes. You won’t be telling Moose and Squirrel about our little chats, will you? After all New Zealand is a long way from…” he waved a hand, “everywhere. Unless you are someone such as myself of course, for me it’s just...” He snapped his fingers and vanished, leaving her to contemplate the fragility of a life.


	89. Victims and Villains

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 89: Victims and** **Villains**

Michele stood staring at the space where Crowley had been. Her mind numbly struggling to grasp what had just happened. Crowley, King of Hell had just appeared and vanished from her kitchen… he’d threatened…

Her mind shied away, then circled back round...

It was pathetic, but pedophiles and demons had both only been theoretical threats to her.

After EVERYTHING, there had STILL been a big part of her that hadn’t understood, that monsters both human and supernatural, could touch her life.

But now, now, Crowley had found her, read her fic, invaded her kitchen, threatened to abduct the person she loved most in the world.

Threatened to take Johnny, who knows where and put him at the mercy of some other sick psychotic … human monster.

Her last shreds of protective unbelief were stripped away.

“Oh God! Oh God, oh god...” The words spilled out of her mouth in panicked horror as the reality came crashing in, she couldn’t seem to stop them. 

Shock, it’s shock, she told herself gripping the bench and sucking in gulping breaths around the words that kept falling out, breaths that didn’t seem to contain any oxygen, no matter how many of them she sucked in.

Her panicked gaze landed on the yellow tupperwear bowl of cupcake batter. Caught and snagged on it… Crowley had put his fingers in there… she’d been baking cupcakes for her husband and kids and he’d just come... stuck his evil, torturing, _dead_ hands in the bowl ... and ... threatened to...

Unthinkingly she lashed out, wanting everything the demon had touched away from her, her life, HER SON.

The bowl careened across the bench, toppled and fell, splattering dark chocolate goo across the kitchen cabinets, like a manifestation of the threat Crowley had smeared across her life.

Something was in the process of breaking inside her, fracturing like rotten ice.

Months… years … a whole lifetime of trying to be good, trying to love and serve God, to do what was right. And this is what it got her?!

She could stand writing the story, she could stand bleeding to death by inches, she could take the visions the pain and the trauma.

She could even take being a fucking experiment...

But not that… _demon_ , threatening Johnny!

Johnny was hers! She’d payed and payed and payed, and she could keep doing it.

But Johnny… Johnny, wasn’t currency she would pay!

“God, you need to hear me. I can’t! I won’t!” She rasped finally, still staring at the goo. “Not my son, it’s too much!

I _know_ I love him too much.  
I know I always have.  
But what do you expect? After everything… he’s _my_ _son_! He’s just a little boy and I’m his mother, his whole world.

He trusts _you_ God.   
Believed me, when I told him all those times. That. You. Love. Him.  
I told him, you love him like I do. That you only want good things for him and you’ll keep him safe.

And I’m going to keep him safe … If I have to choose …That’s my choice … Do you get me God?” Her hand found and clenched around the business card Crowley had left.

“I _have_ to keep him safe! Nothing else matters, not to me... I’ll do what I have to… _I know_ Crowley’s a demon. I know he’s _evil_ ... maybe, maybe that’s why you gave me those visions of him… but he _threatened_ _Johnny_!

I’m not Abraham, I’m not Hannah, I’m not Job … and I’m NOT John or Mary Winchester!

I can’t… Okay?!!” It was a cracked wail, choked out around racking sobs.

“Johnny’s mine, MINE! He’s not some bargaining chip in your game of angels and demons.

I can live with Johnny being different. I can live with _me_ being an experiment. I _can_ find a way to live with it if he’s different because of what they did to me. I _can_ even find a way to forgive all of that…

I’ll write your damn story, I’ll live with the rest of the crap.

I’ll _die for you_ , if that’s what you want!….

But if you think I’m going to choose anyone or anything over Johnny, even _YOU!_ …

Y-you’re wrong…do you hear me God?!

I tell people you are good and kind and just…. **_But if you let that demon touch my little boy_** , let it t-take him… a-and give him to some animal that’ll h-hurt him… That’s… **_that’s it!_**

D-do you hear me? I don’t care if you made me, or him or the entire fucking world! Anything touches him, and you won’t be my God anymore! I won’t write another bloody word for you… and if that kills me, you’ll only have yourself to blame!”

…

Phil Chadwick and his two-year-old son got home from the hardware store a few minutes later and found Michele on her hands and knees sobbing and wiping up spilled cupcake batter.

The sight of her tears stopped him in his tracks and drowned him in trepidation, fear of saying or doing the wrong thing, of making it all worse for her.

Her tears weren’t over the spill, though she’d deny it.  
The transfusions, the stay in hospital, the specialists foreboding words… she’d taken it all so damned calmly at the time. Now, it looked like her calm facade was finally cracking.

Taking the cloth out of her hands and setting it in the bowl, he wrapped his arms around her without a word.

Held and rocked her, as she cried herself out. Worried dully that her emotional collapse was a herald of some worse medical thing happening inside of her, he smoothed her hair with work rough hands and struggled against the sick feeling he was out of his depth, helpless to make things right for her, himself and their children.

Closing his eyes he prayed.

…oooOooo…

Sam huffed a sigh, snatching another glance at his brother’s clenched jaw and tensed muscles. All the signs were there. Dean was blaming himself, second guessing shooting the borrower witch before Max could accept the burden of the witch’s power and bargain away his soul.

The thing they’d met, and thought was the twin’s mother, wasn’t.

It looked and talked and remembered like Tasha Banes. But it had been a fake, a doll made out of sticks, string and the real Tasha Banes dead heart; all animated somehow by witch craft.

Checking out the root cellar, they’d found the bodies of Tasha Banes, Rick Walsh and Andy who man who ran the B&B, all with their hearts ripped out.  
Looked like they had all been dead and turned into nightmare stick dolls well before they’d gotten Alicia’s call.

Sam dropped his eyes, staring at his hands. 

There was blood on them, Alicia Banes’ blood.

Because Dean may have saved Max Banes, but _he_ hadn’t saved Alicia.

One of the doppelgänger stick things, the one that looked like Tasha Banes, had stabbed Alicia.

Killed her.

Because he hadn’t got her out of there.

Because he hadn’t been strong, or quick enough... He’d just watched it happen...

If he’d just got her out of that room, away from the thing posing as her mother…If he’d just… 

Dean shifted, distracting him from his spiraling thoughts.

He watched Dean put his hand to his mouth and begin chewing on an already ragged nail.

Dean didn’t chew his nails. Only when he was struggling and conflicted.

The last time he could remember Dean chewing his nails this much was back when he was fighting his attraction to Amara and hating himself for it.

Dean must have felt his scrutiny, realized what he was doing, he grunted and jerking his hand away from his mouth. Clenched his fist and smacked it down hard against his own thigh.

Sam flinched.

“You did the right thing. You saved him.” Sam tried to reassure his brother.

“Yeah. Yeah, he seemed _super_ saved.” Dean grated in response. “You know, I was watching them, this loving family. The kind we should've had. And now... just like that, it's gone.” Dean kept his eyes resolutely on the road.

“Dean, you couldn't let Max make some deal for his _soul_.”

“Sam, we do terrible things all the time, to save each other. I mean, that's what you do for family. Who am I to stop him?” Because _of course,_ Dean sees it that way. Selling your soul, that’s the fucked-up place love takes you, if you’re a Winchester.

“Well, he's strong. He'll be all right,” it’s all Sam can say, he has to believe Max is different from them. That normal people get to lose a loved one, grieve and move on. The whole world can’t be as screwed up as them.

“Yeah, I'm not so sure.” Dean turned finally to look at him, all the ghosts and sacrifices of their past shadowing his eyes.

Then he turned away again, fixed his eyes upon the miles of empty black top stretching out in front of them.

..oooOOooo…

Crowley stalked in circles around the demon supposed to be delivering a progress report on the search for Kelly Kline.

After the first few minutes he let his mind drift, when it became apparent the brown nosing, snivelling waste of space had nothing whatsoever to report.

It was infuriating, that reading a piece of fanfiction written by Sam Winchester’s dowdy little pet gave him more information than a legion of demons supposedly working night and day.

Digging a hand into his coat pocket he encountered his handkerchief, unexpectedly crumpled and stiff.

Pulling it out he frowned, seeing it was covered in dried blood…

Odd!

Odder yet, was the fact it the blood was human, not demon.

The black clad King of Hell crumpled the bloody silk and shoved it back into his pocket feeling a wave of unease.

He jerked his mind back onto the snivelling idiot in front of him, unease transformed into fury aimed at the incompetent before him.

“How many times do I have to repeat myself? Find me Kelly Kline!” He roared cutting the useless little pillock off. “As a concept, it's ridiculously simple, as are you!”

“Please don't yell. I'm trying.” The demon whimpered.

“I'm trying.” He mimicked mockingly. “Well, try harder!” He snarled impatiently and sneered. “As if your almost-life depended on it!”

“Yes, my King.”

“Bear down. What _do_ you know?”

“We know Dagon is dead and can't protect Kelly.”

“Which makes your task even easier.”

“We know Lucifer's son is almost due.” The demon continued hopefully.

“Which makes your task more crucial.”

Why did none of these morons he was cursed with understand how bad the _thing_ incubating inside Lucifers erstwhile mistress would be for all demonkind?

There was no task more crucial than finding and killing it.

“We know, we don't know how powerful he'll be when born.”

“Which makes you an idiot.” Crowley spat.

“I know that, too.” The pointless sycophant agreed, sounding near tears.

“Apparently, you and the legion of demons that I've assigned to this task haven't been motivated properly. Follow me.”

“Are you going to skin me alive, Sire?” The demon enquired.

It _was_ nice that word of his handiwork with Chirone had spread through the ranks.

“Would _it_ be that simple?"

  
"I have to remind you and your team of screwups of the pride of superior work, the thrill of pleasing me, and the gratification of living one more day.”

  
Looking back at the demon trailing behind him, Crowley found himself missing simpler times, the purity of the cross roads. Being King… Management, was quite literally Hell!

…oooOooo…

“But what the world fails to realise is that a _villain_ is just a _victim_ whose story hasn’t been told. Everything I have done, my life’s work and my crimes against you, have all been for _him…_.”  
  
Michele bit her lip and stared down at the Chris Colfer book she’d been reading aloud to her son.

The words of the last sentence hit her hard.

She didn’t want to be the villain of her own story.

Under all the fear for her son and the anger at being outed to Crowley, by the story she was forced to write; Michele _wanted to believe_ in Gods goodness, that there was always a way to do the right thing.

It occurred to her then, that if the author’s words were correct, she had to try to stop being a victim.

_‘God helps those who help themselves.’_

‘ _Missy there are two types of people in this world, the ones that sit around saying how life isn't supposed to be like it is. And the ones that make it how they want it.’_ The advice of her own, and Kelly’s mother hardened her new found resolve.

She glanced up, catching her son’s eyes, and marked the page with a bookmark, set it aside.

Michele looked at her son in silence for a long time, trying to work out what to do, he looked back, waiting; eventually, he looked away, uncomfortable, maxed out by the prolonged eye contact.

“Johnny you know I love you, don’t you?”

“You’ll love me til there a no more stars.” The boy agreed complacently, repeating the words of a song she’d made up for him, when he was tiny.

“And I never want you to be scared. But I also always want you to be safe… so sometimes… I have to teach you about scary things, so you’ll know how to be safer…”

The child frowned and nodded, eyes flicking up to her face, before slanting away in discomfort once again.

Michele watched her son assemble and disassemble one of the beyblades he’d been playing with while she read to him, his movements too fast, repetitive and jerky, betraying the anxiety building inside his small body.

How on earth do you explain this sort of thing to a child? She wondered painfully. A child like _her son,_ one who lived constantly on the knife edge of anxiety and panic, over _normal_ things, a child who could barely process the everyday world at times?

She’d always been scathing of John Winchester’s decision to tell Sam and Dean so little about everything in the Supernatural books – in reality … He must have known demons had an interest in Sam, but he never taught either boy anything beyond cats-eye shells and putting down salt lines.  
Why hadn’t he taught them an exorcism, or even how to identify if someone was possessed… ?  
Demons may have been rare before Hell’s gate, but not so rare that they hadn’t wormed their way into Sam’s life.  
How many times had she argued with her fanfiction friends, that John not telling them the whole truth, about what they might face was pure negligence?

Now, she was confronted with the tug-of-war between needing her child to be safe and wanting him to not live in constant terror, she understood the man better.

“Johnny do you remember in the bible … where Jesus met the man possessed by unclean spirits in the graveyard … He drove the evil spirits out of him and into the pigs?”

“The pigs drowned themselves,” Johnny frowned seriously, “then the people from the town… they asked Jesus to go away… why weren’t they happy, Mum? Jesus made the man better…” 

“Because…when people don’t understand something it makes them frightened.” Michele could feel the topic she was trying for slipping away out of her grasp. Usually these veers into left field were something that she loved about her son, but not tonight.

“Unclean spirits are also called demons.” She pushed forward relentlessly, while inside she cringed. “Now most of the time people do bad stuff and it’s just them, being mean or selfish or bad... but sometimes, an unclean spirit… a demon can go into someone and make them do bad things…”

Her son took in the information solemnly.

“Unclean spirits or demons are afraid of Jesus, of God, because he’s stronger... so... when they hear ‘ _Christo’_ which is Jesus title in the old language, they sort of shudder in fear and reveal themselves. Their eyes change and go ALL red or ALL black…If they hear the word _Christo_. Do you understand?”

Johnny bit his lip and frowned at her. “You always say that word, _Christo,_ when you see Prinipal Grant.”

Despite herself, Michele smiled. “Yes, I do… but her eyes never change, do they? … So, we know she’s _not_ possessed by an unclean spirit… she’s just... not a very nice person.”

“She pretends to be nice, but she isn’t. She lies.” The boy stated, and Michele was pleasantly surprised that Johnny hadn’t balked over all the talk of demons and unclean spirits. He simply accepted it.

“But she doesn’t have a demon in her.” She continued, “now, I know you’re a good boy and you would never talk to or go anywhere with a stranger.  
But from now on, if someone _you do know_ asks you to go somewhere with them… I need you to say “Will ‘ _Christo’_ Christopher come to?” It will seem like a normal question but it’s a test, okay?  
If the person’s eyes change when you say _Christo_ , I need you to run away, to get away from them and then draw a very special picture on the ground and stand in it. I’ll teach you to draw it in a second. The picture is called a devil’s trap. Demons won’t want to come get you if you stand inside the picture, because if they go onto it they’ll get stuck like glue in it and will get trapped.”

Her son actually smiled at the thought, and Michele didn’t know if she was horrified or relieved by his easy acceptance of what she was telling him.

“I’m also going to teach you some special words in Latin, something called an exorcism, you need to _say it all, and say it right_! We are going to practice it every day from now on, because it can send a demon away, back to Hell, like Jesus did in the bible. But,” she gave him her best Mum glare, “I only want you to try using an exorcism if you have no other choice and you can’t run away, okay?”

Johnny nodded.

Fumbling with her necklace, she undid the clasp and slid off the small charm Dean had sent her.

“Come here.” She requested, shifting closer. She undid the clasp on the matching silver chain Johnny wore and slid the charm onto the chain next to the cross he’d asked for for his 7th Birthday, then refastened it.

The boy held the charm in a cupped palm and examining it closely. “This is one of the pictures you draw on the tags of all our clothes.” He noted fingering the charm.

That surprised her, he’d noticed the protective sigils she’d begun drawing on the tags of all her families clothing months ago. No one else appeared to have.

“It’s to protect you. Because I love you.” She told him simply, then picked up two pencils and a pad of paper off her son’s desk.

“Now... to draw a devil’s trap, the first thing you need to draw is a circle, like this… then you draw a star inside with all five points touching the circle...

You try it ...

Yes, good!

Now’s the hard bit…

The first symbol goes in the bottom outside the star but inside the circle, it looks a bit like a P with some flicky bits, …

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors Note: I realised something during the last few weeks. I owe John Winchester a little bit of an apology.  
> Upon careful consideration it turns out that trying to work out how to protect a child from demons and stay in one place, to let them go off to school and live a normal life, is damn near impossible.  
> In retrospect, living off the grid and moving so often was probably the best form of protection John could give Sam. Especially since he didn’t know what a demon trap was.  
> That said I still think he was a stupid, secretive, selfish, neglectful sonofabitch and both of his sons deserved better.


	90. Staying Safe from Demons

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 90: Staying safe from Demons**

The after-story session had progressed surprisingly well, Johnny got the exorcism quickly and while he’d always struggled with handwriting, he could now draw a devil’s trap accurately; she’d broken it down into 7 easy to follow steps, like the autism specialists suggested for new skills. Realising she’d utilised approved ASD teaching techniques led to a moment of hysterical, unhinged humour, as she imagined writing up a learning story titled “Staying safe from Demons,” and sharing it at the ‘Parents of spectrum kids’ coffee group.  
  
Her life was the bastard child of a cheesy sitcom and a B grade horror movie.

It wasn’t enough… nothing would ever be enough… and the chances were, if Johnny did see a demon’s eyes change, he’d just panic.

Fight, flight or freeze, it was pretty much a roll of the dice with Johnny, if he was thrust into a situation that scared him (like, a nice old lady in the lift at the mall telling him she liked his T-shirt. Or a kapa haka performance at school.)

The impossibility of preparing a child, like him, to face Demons… Well it made it hard to sleep.  
Eventually, long after Phil had fallen asleep, she got up and tried to work out what else she could do.

……..

Michele yawned and rubbed her tired eyes studying her handiwork critically.

She’d done what she could.

Every windowsill and exterior doorway in the house now had a strip of double sided tape coated with consecrated salt across it. (If asked, she planned to tell any of her family that noticed, that the salt strips were to repel ants.) The doormat had a devil’s trap painted underneath it, in paint of exactly the same colour as the underside of the mat. She’d borrowed Johnny’s invisible ink, spy pen, drawn sigils that could only be seen under UV light on the walls, and devil’s traps on the floor … practically everywhere.

Logically her home should now be a demon proof fortress, and in the morning none of her family should be any the wiser.

Of course, it was the _should_ that had her worried.

Had the wikiHow page on consecrating salt and making holy water been correct?  
Would consecration even work for someone infected with demon blood?  
How did salt lines work?

The only salt she had was iodised table salt, was that okay?  
Had putting the salt on double sided tape made it ineffective in some way? (It was the only thing she could think of to counteract owning a cat, to make sure the lines wouldn’t get broken.)  
Did drawing sigils in invisible ink even work? Or did you need to be able to see them?  
Did drawing sigils on the tags of her family’s clothes with a laundry marker provide any protection? Or did the sigils need to go on a metal charm or be tattooed into the skin?

A million questions she wished she’d thought to ask Sam or Dean.

Or, if she had thought, she hadn’t, because Sam didn’t like her asking, he thought ignorance kept her safe… much like his father John before him.

All the protections she’d placed on her house came down to that early file of protection sigils Dean had sent her, what she’d learnt from Carver Edlund’s books, and the Supernatural wiki website Kat had pointed her to.

There was one other resource she had … People, all her fic-friends, Peaches, Kat, Cougar, Nic... and the people in the Supernatural Research and Discussion forum, Cougar had talked her into joining.  
Sam and Dean’s knowledge might be out of reach if she kept to the rules Crowley gave her,, but the Supernatural books had a very passionate group of readers that could act as a knowledge bank on all things Supernatural.

Her fic gave her the perfect cover, and the Supernatural fandom was always eager to discuss the smallest things. 

It took a bit of working out how to phrase her questions, but finally she cast her bread upon the waters. Sent a handful of messages out, and posted a few discussion topics onto the group page.

…oooOooo…

Michele took a deep breath of autumn crisp air and tried to push down her fears for Johnny, at school.

She’d done everything she could:

Drawn a UV ink, devils trap in the classroom doorway; felt more reassured about that, because apparently Bobby had done it once, and it worked, according to Dawn and Gayle from the discussion forum … She’d even drawn an anti-posession sigil onto Johnny, with a sharpie, which was Dawn’s rough and dirty version of Cougar’s more elegant idea, of henna tattooing him.

Johnny has a small water pistol of holy water and a bag of consecrated salt and she’d explained to him how they would work.

Salt and holy water water pistol could easily be passed off as a kid prank if he got overtly gung-ho, and neither were a threat to humans. 

  
He’d be fine, she has to stop worrying!

Crowley might be a demon, but he was a _intelligent_ demon. He knew wanted to keep her compliant, that’s why he was threatening _Johnny_.

Taking another breath, she watched her youngest son’s pure joy as he ran across the dew wet grass ahead of her.   
It had been too long, and she felt guilty over that, but the ducks remembered him and what he always brought. They launched themselves across the pond and crowded around Chris’ favourite bench, quacking eager greetings.

Wingdeigo, Bossy, Patchy, Limpy, the four white ducks and old Huffa duck; all the regulars were there, interspersed in the sea of interchangeable mallards.

Chris waded into the hoard fearlessly, a scene to her somewhat reminiscent of Daenery Targaryen wading into the sea of freed slaves as they cried out “Mhysa” in game of thrones.

The beauty and simplicity of the scene clutched at Michele’s heart.

_‘Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’_

Michele followed and seated herself beside her son on the bench looking out at the pond, stared out at the play of sunlight over water, and pushed everything else away, grounding herself in the now.

Focused on being truly present in the moment, with her son, giving him a childhood memory of a mother who _loves_ him, some uncomplicated happiness.

He really deserves that.

Opening the bread bag, she began to rip a slice into smaller pieces, so her son could feed the hungry.

….

Crowley sauntered up to the bench and took a seat next to the mother and son.

Michele glanced up, recognised the black suit feeling an awful plummeting dread; tightened her arm around her son and drew him tightly against her side.   
Resolutely she continued to rip the stale bread into small pieces and hand them over to her two-year-old.

“Well isn’t this rural.” The demon observed fastidiously, looking down at the mud and what was probably duck poo on his expensive shoes.

“I haven’t told Sam or Dean anything.

Haven’t even spoken to them…I sent you a copy of all the chapters I’ve finished writing ** _… What more do you want?”_**

“Those chapters.” The demon smirked “.... very interesting reading Poppet. You _did_ say you’d like feedback.”

Angrily she tossed half a slice of bread into the mob of ducks.

“Not from you, “she hissed, side eyeing him and shoved her hand into her left pocket of her jacket, filled her fist with the Goofer dust that she’d bought online, after Gayle, from the Supernatural group suggested that it should act like consecrated salt on steroids against anything demonic.  
“Not from the _demon_ that’s blackmailing me and threatening to hand my oldest son over to a pedophile!” She jerked her hand out of her pocket and tossed the powder at the demon, expecting something explosive to happen.

Crowley gave her a puzzled look, brushed at his coat and sniffed at the residue on his fingers.

“Hmm?” The demon inquired, “black pepper? You _do_ realise you used the wrong condiment, Darling?”

“No, no, no, no… it’s Goofer dust. It’s supposed to be like consecrated salt on steroids against anything d-demonic.” Her voice shook.

“No, I assure you it’s black pepper. Besides I’m not a Hell Hound, Love.

Where did you get this ‘Goofer dust?’”

“I … uh… bought it on line…?”

The demon chuckled. “Of course, you did!

You got had, Pet.

First rule of hoodoo: Don’t buy supplies online.” Crowley advised her smugly.  
“Now, back to the conversation at hand… Granted, yes, I _will_ hand your pride and joy over to a kiddie fiddler, but _only_ if you tattle.

The Winchester’s both have anger issues.” Crowley told her patiently, his English accented voice sounding unfairly kind and reasonable. “You’re Moose’s favourite toy, he’s a jealous individual. I would seriously advise you to find someone else to have a cyber affair with, Pet.  
Samuel Winchester… he has issues.

Look how he got, when Dean and I explored our relationship a few years ago.”

“I’m not having a cyber affair! Sam’s _just_ a friend… and besides Dean was a demon! That wasn’t a relationship.”

“Believe what ever you tell yourself, Pet.

Just help me find Lucifer’s spawn.”

“I haven’t seen Castiel or Kelly, not since Cas knocked out Sam and Dean and left them lying unconscious in the dirt.

I’m not a dowsing rod. I couldn’t find or help that blonde man you’ve got chained in your evil lair! I couldn’t find or help Kelly when Dagon had her. _Don’t you think I wanted to?”_

The demon favoured her with an almost pitying smile. “The blonde man’s meat suit _was_ dead before it became my guest, if that makes you feel better. And I assure you, if Samuel Winchester knew what I have chained in my basement, he’d be begging me to bury it in the deepest darkest hole in Hell.”

She turned, open mouthed to ask what…

And saw Chris, lean too far forward from the corner of her eye, turned to react.  
Chris would’ve fallen before she could grab him, but Crowley flicked a hand and righted the child.

The demon made a disdainful sound. “The child really is a klutz, no wonder he’s not your favourite.”

“It’s not like that,” she answered softly, wishing he wouldn’t say things like that in front of Chris, he was slow with some things, but he understood what you said. “Chris and the girls, it’s not that I love them less, It’s just… I was always the whole universe to Johnny, he never… really saw anyone else, even though they were there. When you’re someone’s whole universe like that, you can’t help returning that dedication.” She swallowed painfully, “of course it’s just weakness to you, so, you’re exploiting it.”

“Of course,” the man in black acquiesced with a smug smile, then waved a hand at the ducks.  
“The winged vermin are waiting.” He prompted.

Michele frowned, without anything else she could do, she returned to tearing up bread for her son to throw, pulled out a few extra slices and handed them across to the demon; as if he were a normal stranger sharing their bench, and this was a normal day.  
For a few beats Crowley held the bread limply in his hands, then began tearing and tossing it out to the ducks.

They continued like that for a long time, Michele handing the demon more bread when his hands were empty. An almost amicable silence descended between them, until finally, the bread bag was empty. It was bizarre, Crowley almost seemed to be enjoying himself.

The whole time her mind churned, going over everything she knew about the demon.

“Crowley? Why are you still here?” She asked finally in a small voice. “Why did you stop Chris falling off the bench just now?”

“You’d rather he fell on his face?”

“No… but I’m his mother, I care about him, I don’t like seeing him hurt.”

“Children scream bloody murder when they hurt themselves, it ruins the ambience.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why does a child crying ruin the ambience?

Why did you just let it go, when I tried to attack you before?

Why did Gavin say you’re a better person now, than when you were alive? Why have you saved Castiel so many times? Why have you never taken the opportunity to kill the Winchesters?”

“You’re one daft bird you know that?” Crowley muttered dusting off his hands. “Gavin was a moron! Feathers, Dumb and Dumber are all useful, on occasion.”

“A _villain_ is a _victim_ whose story hasn’t been told, I read that, this week.”

The demon snorted. “You’re naïve sweetums. Everyone is a victim at some point.”

“Yes, and we’re all villains … ALL have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. It says so in the bible.”

“Save the sermons for someone you can help, I’m a demon Love, beyond redemption.”

“Are you? I guess you’d know…  
I just can’t help wondering… when and how does someone become incapable of love or repentance, and are you _really_ , Crowley?

Have you ever wondered how Dean Winchester of all people got stuck with the title of Righteous Man…? I love him, but … he’s not exactly a saint, is he? A bit like Abraham in my books. Abraham believed God and it was credited to him as Righteousness.

Someone once described redemption to me like God handing us a blank check, created by Jesus Christ’s…” The demon’s eyes flicked red. “-Uh sorry! - His death on the cross. The account the blank check draws upon has unlimited funds, because well, He’s God … everything belongs to Him. So, no matter what we’ve done, our debts can _potentially_ be paid with it.  
But we get to choose, we can either say ‘stuff that’ and toss the check away or use it to pay what we owe. To get our debt paid we have to acknowledge we have a debt, that we can’t pay it by ourselves, and accept the _gift_ of payment on our behalf, write, ‘for the payment of the debts incurred by, Michele Cherie Chadwick’ or … Crowley Fergus Roderick MacLeod… on that check … use the potential of that payment available...” Michele stumbled to a stop awkwardly, suddenly realising that Crowley was staring at her incredulously.

“Are you _really_ , trying to save my soul?

Are you a fucking moron?” The monarch scoffed, voice dripping with scorn. “You, you’re not exactly an advertisement for survival of the fittest, are you.”

Michele could feel herself blushing.  
For a second, _she’d forgotten_ … gotten caught up in trying to explain salvation… _to a demon of all people._

Not exactly a wise move.

Crowley sat there looking at her, frowning, like she was a new kind of bug.

He didn’t seem mad exactly, just impatiently irritated, it was the sort of response most people had to ‘God talk.’

“… it’s just …when Sam tried to cure you during the trials…” Crowley shifted and looked away, “…you asked him, how, you were supposed to even begin to look for forgiveness.

It’s years too late, I know... but, I just wanted to tell you, forgiveness isn’t earned, it’s given, all you have to do is _ask God for it,_ and really mean it.”

…ooo0ooo…

Crowley, the King of Hell shifted away from the woman on the park bench slightly.  
She was just so … ertch!

He suppressed a shudder of distaste.  
He misses the other prophet! That Asian kid, Kevin Tran.

At least he never tried to _preach_.

Crowley has met God, the deity wasn’t exactly awe inspiring, in person… turned out HE was pretending to be another Prophet, that Hack writer Chuck Shurley, wrote those _God-awful_ supernatural books.

Kevin didn’t think or talk about God, definitely didn’t think demons wanted to be _good_ … somewhere deep down inside. But _of course_ , now he’s cursed with Sam Winchester’s pet Zanna.

“You’re consistent, I’ll give you that, Love. All heart and no brain.” He informed her, allowing his contempt for her saccharine world view colour his voice. “You have these cuddly notions about that Nephilim. Think you taught it to _love_ , _as if that’s possible_ …it’s father is The Father of Lies, the most evil, manipulative bastard in all creation… but you won’t entertain the possibility that junior is playing you.”

Beside him the woman shuddered and for a second, he thought she was going to argue with him, again.

Until she made a little pained sound and her head jerked back sharply, as if she’d been hit with a jolt of electricity. 

Her eyes flooded with gold light and her body slumped. He caught her reflexedly, stared down at her pale face, as blood crept from her nose and the corners of her glowing eyes.  
The sight sent an unexplainable shudder through him, made him want to shove her lax body off his lap and flee.

“Momma owwie?” The tyke piped up from his left, reached out a chubby hand to grab onto his coat sleeve, its bottom lip was beginning to quiver, with the other hand the child tugged ineffectually at it’s mother’s hair.

He looked at it, patted it’s hand awkwardly.  
“Your Momma’s busy right now Moppet. But she’ll be right back.  
Then, she’ll tell us a story.”


	91. One-Up Man-ship

** The Thing You Hate **

****

**Chapter 91: One-Up-man-ship**

****

Crowley took his eyes off the child, looked down at the woman’s face contemplatively.

Such a little thing, really; she wasn’t much shorter than Mother, but didn’t have the same physical presence.

The demon trailed experimental fingers over the woman’s blood drenched lips and smiled smugly to himself, imagining the look Sam Winchester would give him, if he could just see the liberties he was taking, with his bird. 

Tilting her head up with one hand, he cupped his other under her chin, catching the vermillion flow in the palm of his hand, stopping it from soiling his suit…

It was… so warm… so red…

The King of Hell swallowed.

Suddenly, half mesmerised by the sight of all that red, live blood pooling on and smeared across the meat he inhabited.

Addiction to blood, one thing he and Moose’d had in common; not that high and mighty Sam Winchester had wasted any sympathy or fellow feeling over it, even when he was strung out detoxing. He got nothing but withering contempt from long and tall, even though the invasive bastard had been the one that sunk that red dragon’s fang into him, shooting him up again and again, until he was well and truly hooked.

Then, the bastard just left him hanging.

Dean’d called her Sam’s cousin by demon blood; Winchesters liked to claim their victims as Family, before they used them up and destroyed them. Couldn’t claim her as a sister of course, not with Moose wanting to bang her, or Dean’s attempt at a little phone sex.

Crowley chuckled at the thought of Jolly Green’s face if he found out what big brother had tried on with the object of his affections, to be a fly on the wall if Moose found out about that!

What exactly _did_ Moose find so fascinating about her, had he sensed the things in her blood?

Blood calling to blood?

What would it be like to spike a syringe of _this_ blood into his vein? Would it feel like Sam’s had? … Better?

Crowley lifted the blood in his cupped hand, admiring it.

The blood was just... _so red._

No wonder Moose couldn’t take his eyes off it on the screen, no wonder he dreamed of her giving it up to him.

It was partially the thought of one upping Sam Winchester that made the demon raise his bloody hand to his mouth. 

Salt and iron, a sting that was somehow both fire and ice in his mouth as he swallowed it down.

He licked his bloody hand clean. Took a breath and let his head rock back with the influx of _feeling_ that curled through his senses.

He’d forgotten _how good_ it felt, how much more _present_ he felt, the colours sparked brighter, the sunshine felt warmer, caressing over his skin.

It wasn’t the same as shooting up, but the glow was still there; followed by the same panicked feeling, realisation that he’d lost control, _again_.

It was nothing, less than nothing… It barely counted as a slip, he assured himself, gazing down again into her face.

Avoided focusing on the burning gold flooding her eyes, behind the tinted lenses of her skewed glasses, the sight of which stirred dread in his guts, like warnings of a bad trip.

Her skin was sickly pale, beneath the blood, her lips tinged blue; she wasn’t breathing he realised belatedly.

It had been a long while since he’d bothered to consider such things. The functions of life. Demons and damned souls didn’t need beating hearts, pumping blood or the pedestrian in and out motions of breathing.

Still, there should be no need to intervene. By all accounts she’d start breathing on her own again shortly.

….

As she came back to herself Michele felt a moment of terrified disorientation, she was half lying in someone’s lap, held there by strong hands.

Blinking her eyes clear, she looked up at the face staring down it her.

Crowley! She struggled to sit up, and _get off of his lap,_ but the demon kept her pinned where she was, removed her glasses and pulled out a handkerchief, and proceeded to wipe her face fastidiously clean, like she was a messy child.

Finally, he re-seated her glasses on her face.

“There, all clean.” He announced with a sardonic smile, that brought a disconcerting look of warmth to his eyes, he stuffed the handkerchief into his coat pocket and let his power drop away.

Michele lurched back, away from the demon on the bench, heart hammering, over the proprietal way he’d manhandled her.

Pretty much instantly regretting the motion, she wrapped her arms around Chris protectively, sucking in ragged breaths of pain with her skin crawling.

“Why…” she choked out, waving a hand between them, trying to convey her question without the assault of words.

Her head still reverberated with the vision, the fear of that other mind, _and her own._

Closed her eyes against the sunlight and the post-vision migraine, cleared her throat and spat blood into the grass.

Crowley just watched her impassively.

“Momma ‘ory?” Chris asked from her arms as he tugged on a handful of her hair, making her wince.

“Story?” She echoed, completely at a loss.

“Moppet and I are waiting with bated breath for the story of your travels, Poppet,.” Crowley gruffed.

Michele stared at him silently with resentful eyes for a while.

“Come now Sweetness don’t play hard to get, I don’t like recalcitrant little girls.”

Her resistance was always low after a vision.

She didn’t want Crowley to start throwing his weight around, he might look civilised, but she knew he wasn’t, he cut off one of Kevin’s fingers, has killed other proto prophets. _He_ _could hurt Chris, and she can’t risk that_.

Besides, the latest vision was pretty much nothing, useless and obscure; it might help Crowley understand why stalking and intimidating her was a waste of his time.

She sighed heavily.

“It was night, but there must have been a full moon because it was still bright enough to see. I … -whoever’s eyes I was seeing through- was running through forest…  
Scared, really scared, trying to outrun something.  
I-they kept thinking I’d been stupid, had never checked the car...” She rubbed at her aching temples.

“The whole vision was weird, cinematic, kind of disconnected… but I can’t quite put my finger on why… There was something about it, wrong… missing…? I don’t know… It wasn’t Castiel or Kelly, before you ask. Who ever it was had a gun, but it wasn’t Sam or Dean, either, I know what their thoughts taste like… and the car the person was thinking about … it _felt_ red, not black, who ever they were, they thought about the car as... a thing… not...”

“Not something that brings new meaning to the term autoerotica? I’m curious Pet, do Winchesters taste like cut price alcoholism and ingratitude to you too? Or something more pent up?”

Michele just stared at the demon, too wrung out to think of an appropriate response.

“That’s it? _The moon was high, I saw someone running through the woods with a gun?!_ ” He mimicked her mockingly, “did you even see what or who, was chasing this individual?”

“No,” she admitted sullenly.

“Well, you _are_ useless, aren’t you?!”

“Yes… post-it glue _. I keep telling you...”_

“‘ory, ‘ory, ‘ory…” Chris chose that moment to pipe up again.

Michele sighed and closed her eyes, Chris didn’t understand; and if he didn’t get what he’d been promised, soon, she knew he’d start crying.

She wasn’t sure she could cope with a screaming two-year old _and_ a volitile demon right then.

She dredged up one of Chris’s current favourite Lynley Dodd stories, ‘Scarface Claw,’ out of her aching, abused brain.

Began to recite it by rote.

“ _Who is the roughest and toughest of cats? The boldest, the bravest, the fiercest of cats?”_

She chanted the words softy; repetition had them falling easily from her lips.

“ _Wicked of eye and fiendish of paw is mighty, magnificent, SCARFACE CLAW._

_Scaredy cats tremble and people all shout, whenever this tomcat is out and about._

_No matter what happens, whoever might call, there’s NOTHING that frightens him, nothing at all._

_Is he frightened of thunderstorms?_

_Certainly not….”_

On the other end of the bench Crowley harrumphed mockingly, but stayed quiet throughout the rest of the story recital.  
Scarface confronted many feline fears, with great apomp, right up until the last line of the story.

“That last line doesn’t make sense.” Crowley groused.

“It’s a kid’s book Crowley.” She responded feeling defensive. “The illustrations have Scarface confronting himself in a mirror. He scares himself and runs away.

Hence the only thing that scares him, _is him._

Chris loves it.”

She looked up to see if Crowley understood, but the demon has vanished.

…oooOooo…

Dean pushed up off the impala and walked towards his brother as he came back out of the motel office carrying the key he’d got from the manager.

Score one for fake FBI credentials and that Samuel Winchester brand of authority and empathy which Dean has never been quite able to muster.

When they’d walked in to the motel office, the dude behind the desk had just looked at them and given Dean _the look_ , the one some guys got; it said, “doesn’t matter what you want, I’m gonna do my level best to screw you round, because I just don’t like you.”

He was more hinderance than help in those cases. He’d glanced at Sam silently, raised one eyebrow a notch and received a minute nod in return, yup Sam’d caught it too; So, he faked taking a phone call, and turned on his heel, leaving Sam to it.

Sam didn’t smile as he walked back towards him, just held up the key to Mom’s Motel unit.

Dean found himself missing the absent toothy smile; wished Sam would make a scathing comment along the lines of how he fully understood how Dean could piss some people off just by existing.  
But he didn’t say a word, Sam’d been morose since Rockriver, since Max and Alicia – or telling Mitch… or Cas ditching them, for his new baby god.

The elder Winchester scuffed the heel of his work boot through the lot’s gravel.

Yeah, he guessed there were a million reasons for Sam not to smile.

They really needed a win, not whatever problem Mom had dug up, then gone non-comuniacado over.

Sam tossed him the key, and he caught it easily as they walked toward Mom’s unit.

“Sam, you hear from Mitch lately?”

Sam’s lips drew down. “No Dean, we’ve been sorta busy… w-with the Banes, and now Mom… beside I sorta think she needs time to process, you know.”

Dean rubbed at the back of his neck. “Yeah maybe…” he cleared his throat. “Yeah, but … don’tcha think talkin’ with someone who knows what it’s like, might help her, I mean you sorta…”

Sam cleared his throat, pinching at the bridge of his nose and ran a harassed hand through his hair. “You want me to tell her this is all okay?! She doesn’t want lies Dean! … So, what am I supposed to tell her? If she wants to talk, she’ll reach out …. in the meantime, we need to find Cas and Kelly, figure out what’s going on with Mom. Okay?”

Dean sighed, unlocking the door and pulled the, “no service,” request off the doorknob. Pushed the door open and flicked on the lights.

“Mom?” He called, looking around the _very green_ motel unit, noted the dishevelled bed, tossed the, ‘no service,’ request onto the nearby table, which was cluttered with old take out containers and an empty wine bottle, (apparently Mom wasn’t much of a neat freak.)

“Mom?”

  
  
He checked the room, and the bathroom, pulled back the shower curtain; noting that the floor of the shower was bone dry, hadn’t been used in days.

  
“Well, looks like she hasn't been here for a while.” He shared his findings with Sam.

“Yeah.” Sam agreed “All her stuff is gone. Did she say she was moving on or –“  
  
“No, I told you what she said. She said, ‘Dean, call me. We have a problem.’ And then that was it. She didn't sound happy.”

  
  
“Okay, well, when she's not here, she's been bunking with the Brits. So maybe – “

“Well, dude. I've called Mick, like, six times. He's been radio silent since they sent him to London.”

Sam gave him a look.

Ketch… crap he really didn’t wanna go there... But pulled out his phone and swiped through his contacts, found Ketch’s number.

The phone rang.

“Yes?” Ketches voice always set his teeth on edge.

  
  
“Ketch, calling to see if my Mom's with you.”

“Who is this?” The pompous ass enquired in his usual, tea and crumpets tone of voice.

“It's Dean.” He snapped, like the douch’s iPhone didn’t have caller id. Seriously?!

“I know a number of Dean’s, could you be more specific.” Ketch continued, stringing out the conversation, playing his little game.

“Winchester.”

“Dean Winchester. Ahhh and why are you calling _me_ , Dean? Mary has a number of phones.”

“Because I'd like to speak to her, that's why.”

“I am not your mother’s keeper, Dean. I have to ask however, are you always this terse when calling your mother?”

“No, I'm not being terse. Look, if you haven't seen her, do you know where she is?”

“I really couldn’t say. I do think it would behove you to use more manners when speaking on the phone, Dean. No matter the situation, manners bring out the best in people, don’t you think? Curtness on the other hand...” 

“No, I'm not being curt either! Look, I don't have time for Manners 101 from you, okay? If she's with you, I wanna know about it...”  
  
“I haven’t seen Mary since last Wednesday, Dean. Shall I tell her you called, when I see her next.

...I do think that if your Mother is avoiding your calls, it might do to examine your contribution to that situation, instead of lashing out at others. Now if that is all you required; I am a tad busy. Goodbye Dean.”

The tea swilling sonofabitch was getting on his last nerve

“Fine” he bit out and hung up.

“Such a dick.”  
  
“And?” Sam asked

  
  
“He says he hasn't seen Mom in over a week.”

“But Mom called two days ago, said she was working a case with him.”  
  
Dean nodded and rolled his neck, looked at his brother helplessly. “Which means he's lying.”  
  
“But why would he –“Sam began, but his phone began ringing and cut him off.  
He grunted, pulled it out and looked at the caller id.

“Jody.” He informed. “Jody, hey.”

“No… what?” Sam closed his eyes and winced at whatever Jody said, curling in on himself slightly.

“No. Uh, No, we hadn't heard.”  
  
Dean’s guts twisted, from the look on Sam’s face, the news was bad.

“Mom?” He asked anxiously.

  
  
Sam shook his head.

Had something bad turned up on Cas and Kelly?

“Um, when? What the hell happened?”

He wished Sam would tell him what Jody had to say or put it on speaker phone.

“Oh, no... No, I-I, Yeah, thanks for letting me know. Bye.”  
  
Sam hung up the phone.  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Eileen.” Sam looked away, lips drawn thin, eyes like wounds.  
  
Dean closed his eyes, it was a kick in the guts, worse because Mitch had painted picture of a chance of a life, for Sam and Eileen in his head. He realised now that he’d bought in to that possibility. That and there was Claire to think about too.

“How?” He prompted finally.  
  
“She was, uh, mauled by a wild animal in a wooded area that doesn't have animals that do that… in South Carolina.”  
  
“But, I thought she was in Ireland.”

Sam shrugged helplessly and turned his back, dragged a hand down his face to obliterate tears.

‘Winchester men don’t cry, Sammy man up,’ a memory of John Winchester barked in the back of Dean’s head. Dean shook the memory away in denial.

Winchester men cry plenty.

“Sam…” He began.

  
  
“Dean,” his little brother turned back to him, eyes shiny and hooded, face pale. “That's the second Hunter death we've heard about in two weeks.”

  
“I know. But two doesn't mean a pattern.” He argued.  
  
“Three would.”  
  
“Meaning?”  
  
“Mom's a Hunter, and no one knows where she is.”


	92. Judas

** The Thing You Hate **

****

**Chapter 92: Judas**

****

Rain, rain and more rain, today there’d be no visits to the park or duck pond.  
Today, Summer was a memory and Autumn felt as though it had bowed out to Winter.  
On days like this Mothers were thankful for Minecraft and Paw patrol. Michele sipped her coffee and frowned at the email notifications from her latest chapter.

She hated the damn chapter, hadn’t even edited it, grammar and spelling be damned!

Crowley’s scathing opinion of her, being pushed around, his threats against Johnny; none of those things were what she wanted to dwell on.  
But for all that, there was a certain solicace that people had read it, that someone else knew, even if they thought it was fiction.  
The few reviews she’d received were from her regulars, all but one. Which was from a guest reviewer, and a little weird.

_Guest:. I love the symbology of a bloody kiss. It brings to mind Judas or Sleeping beauty’s prince. Betrayal or redemption from a curse._

The comment about a bloody kiss was so … random.  
Of course, you got random reviews from time to time, people tried to be humorous … or deep, or tried to prod the story along a track they felt enthusiastic about…

Some were just just weird, random attention seeking statements. Like the one Peaches got the other day, announcing, ‘I am the vampire queen, I built my castle on a mountain of bones.’ That review had a grand sum of nothing to do with anything in Peaches fic.

This review did seem to relate to her fic at least. Blood… there was just… always so much blood …

A bloody kiss… Was the reviewer trying to imply she should have drunk the demon blood, or that eventually she would make a deal with Crowley to save Johnny? That she needed to wake up? Was the reviewer referring to how she’d stupidly said she could kiss Sam all those weeks ago, after he’d posted her chapter for her, when she was stranded in the flooded North with her in-laws? …  
Did they mean that she was, or would, betray Sam?  
Michele gnawed on her lower lip and let the hand that cradled her phone in fall to her lap…

Maybe she _was_ betraying him, she hadn’t called or emailed the Winchesters about the vision she’d had at the park, with Crowley. She’d told herself it was because the vision hadn’t had anything useful in it, that the Winchesters wouldn’t be any happier with it than Crowley had been. But the truth was, she was afraid, afraid that she’d break, and tell them about Crowley’s visits …. That, then Crowley would do as he threatened. And Johnny would pay for her weakness.  
As if thinking of the demon summoned him, a vision slammed into her skull.

***

Crowley smiled at the British Elder of letters, Gillian Hess. Illegitimate great granddaughter of Rudulf Hess, one-time Deputy to the Führer and ratifier of the Nuremberg Laws, of 1935; the laws that stripped German Jews of all their rights in the lead-up to the Holocaust. 

Like her ancestor, this Hess was a clever and ruthless politician. She’d risen through the ranks of the British men of letters and became both an Elder, in the predominantly male Men of Letters organisation, and headmistress of Kendrick’s academy.

Her prim appearance was delightfully deceiving. She was, Crowley knew, a woman not to be underestimated. She had trained and mentored some of the most unmerciful assassins alive, ones that hunted both man and monster. Since their first meeting, Crowley had found her to be an endlessly fascinating and interesting woman. One whose ruthlessness he’d learnt never to underestimate.

Michele absorbed the King of Hell’s knowledge, comforted for the first time, that Crowley thought so little of _her_.  
She recognised the tastefully dressed woman, as Mick Davies’ Doctor Hess, the deity like figure that had overshadowed the man’s childhood with equal parts awe and dread.

“Obviously, your organization is looking to put down roots.” The King of Hell suggested lightly to his companion, “I just want to make doubly sure that you and I have the same arrangement in the States that we do in the U.K.”

Michele experienced a flare of vindictive justification upon hearing those words. The British Men of Letters _were_ dirty, she’d just known it! This woman was a member of the organisation’s leadership, why else did they have some kind of arrangement with a demon.

Then of course, her better angels piped up, reminded her Sam and Dean also worked with Crowley… And, that she may want to deny it, but now she did too.  
She’d be a hypocrite to say things were ever simple or clear cut… Maybe Crowley had something over Hess.

‘ _Love is the bane of honor, the death of duty. What is honor compared to a woman's love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms ... or the memory of a brother's smile? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human…’_ They were George R.R Martin’s words, not hers, but true for all that.  
When you point the finger, remember there are three pointing back at you.

  
  
Gillian Hess smiled back at Crowley, her eyes flat and humourless, “I don't see why not. No point being at war. Both sides lose.” She agreed primly. “If, your demons limit their involvement to humans idiotic enough to sell their souls.”  


“Done.” Crowley agreed easily.  
  
“And share information? As needed?” Hess stipulated.  
  
Crowley lifted his eyebrows, “I assume finding that infernal Nephilim is a top priority?”

Finding ‘this child’ really did seem to be Crowley’s overwhelming concern.  
  
“Since it could kill you, me, and the entire universe… probably.” Hess agreed, sounding bored.

“I am a team player. My demons are scouring the country as I speak.” Crowley volenteered.

“Did you notice my sigh of relief? Oh, right. There wasn't one.” The woman answered scornfully brushing off Crowley’s attempt to align priorities.

Despite herself, Michele felt her hackles rise again. For all her words about the threat that might destroy the universe, Hess seemed to barely care.  
Michele couldn’t agree with Crowley, his fears about Kelly’s child and his methods were _wrong_! She didn’t want to be party to helping him find or kill ‘this child’.. But she couldn’t deny that Crowley was following his convictions.  
The British Men of Letters on the other hand, had knowledge, money and resources far beyond anything Sam and Dean had, claimed to be noble … good... But consistently did nothing… about the Werewolf cure, the Appocalypse, Lucifer, Dick Roman… Amara.   
All Michele’s instincts continued to argue that the demon was the lesser of two evils in the room.

Hess looked like she was about to walk out, then turned back, eyed the demon coldly. “Crowley, one more thing…”

  
  
“What?”  
  
“Your relationship with the Winchesters... It's a bit cozy for my taste. I hope you don't expect me to spare your friends.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes and smiled as if he was amused.  
“I don’t have friends, I make deals with those I can use,” he informed her, apparently unphased.

But Michele was surprised by the amount of contained, almost possessive, fury the demon hid.

Crowley was furious that Hess had the nerve to imagine she could tell _him_ what to do, but there was more to it than that… Crowley saw the Winchesters as _his, his_ to spare... (or slaughter, if he ever decided to.)

The King of Hell had shrugged off Michele’s question in the park, he might deny the Winchesters were his friends… but they were the closest thing he had. They’d been through too many fires together, knew each other’s failings and wounds intimately. Crowley had come to rely that, on them... Deep down Crowley knew...and he hated and embraced the knowledge in equal measure.

Meanwhile Hess had walked out, and Crowley stared after her, thinking maybe it was time the British bitch had a lesson, a permanent lesson, in humility. One whose punchline would end with Hess discovering, contry to code of the British Men of Letters, the ends _did not in fact_ justify the means. Upon death she’d discover, just as many of her hypocritical predecessors had.

She would of course transition quickly from tortured soul, to torturer, gaining her black eyes and become what she’d once claimed to despise. It was an evolution of sorts, one that had always tickled Crowley’s sense of poetic irony.

***

Blood on her hands and face, Michele gazed out the rain streaked window, her head reeling. What did Hess mean about not sparing the Winchesters?

Were they in danger? From what she had felt from Crowley, surely he wouldn’t allow Hess to harm them.

Was that why he’d used whatever Chirone wanted to sell to gain information on the Men of Letters warding? So that he’d stay one step ahead of the organisation…. Maybe.

Maybe… the bible verse, that said all things worked together for good… might even apply to self-serving, manipulative demons, such as Crowley.

…oo0oo…

Sam stared down at Eileen’s pale, battered, achingly _dead_ face and struggled to swallow down the guilt and regret that threatened to drown him.  
She was a Hunter, and this was where a Hunter’s story usually ended. Alone and unclaimed, in a morgue; body torn to shreds by something...

He couldn’t help wondering though, how differently things would have turned out if he’d allowed that night, the one after Eileen had accidentally killed the man of Letters, to turn out the way Eileen had wanted … the way part of _him_ had wanted …

She would have stayed, if he’d just … gone with the flow.  
Instead he’d chosen … what exactly? Not something he could have… Dean was right...

He’d hurt Eileen; at the time he’d thought he was doing the right thing. Now, he wasn’t so sure...

People who cared about him, they always ended up dead, or broken...

He’d hurt Eileen when she was already hurting, and then she’d fled to Ireland.  
Then, somehow, she ended up here, in South Carolina, on this morgue slab.   
Cold and lifeless, with her soft skin shredded and leaves tangled in her hair; hair that had once smelled like roses.

If he’d done things differently… or pushed Michele’s idea of pairing her off with Claire harder… Done more… would she be alive right now?  
Michele and Dean, they’d tried; this was on him, he’d screwed it up, dropped the ball… This… Eileen’s death, was His fault.

Dean glanced up at him from reading the autopsy report, his green eyes lit with halting concern, an echoing guilt and sadness.

Sam swallowed, “People who do what we do, you know there are gonna be deaths,” he shook his head helplessly, “but... this...”  
  
Dean nodded minutely, “These wounds – I mean, we've only seen something this bad a few times.”

  
  
“Hell-hound?”  
  
Dean shut the report. “Yeah… But it doesn't make any sense. Why would a – why would a demon sic a hell-hound on her? Why did she leave Ireland?”  
  
“I don't know, Dean.”

Dean began pacing.  
“All right, well, counting Eileen, that makes seven Hunters in three weeks.  
Seven dead Hunters in the past three weeks... and Mom was still missing."

“Yeah, and those are the ones we know about.”  
  
“Seven monster-related deaths. I mean, what? Did all the things out there suddenly start working together?”  
  
“Dean, monsters and demons don't team up!”  
Especially after what Crowley had done to find purgatory …

“Seven Hunters are gone. We can't grab a signal from Mom's phone. Cas has Kelly Kline, who knows where. Mick has slipped off the grid. Ketch is lying to us...” Sam huffed a breath of frustration “I-I... I wanna punch something in the face.”

  
“Good!” Dean advised, “Hold on to that, 'cause it looks like we got a hell-hound to deal with. Which means…”

…ooo0ooo…

“Moose, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Crowley asked, answering his phone.

“Eileen Leahy, she was a hunter, she’s dead.” Sam Winchester grated in his ear.

“And…?” The Monarch prompted, less than thrilled with the way the conversation was headed.

“A hellhound did it, Crowley. And no hunter would make a demon deal…”

  
Crowley raised an eyebrow, tempted to remind Sam that Mommy and Daddy had done just that. _Dean_ had done just that. That _he,_ high and mighty Sam Winchester had been willing to do just that, _multiple times_. Instead he let it slide.

  
“I'm telling you, I don't know anything about it. The name Eileen Leahy means nothing to me.” He lied smoothly.  
He did know the name, had read about Sam’s aborted tryst with the woman, after Dagon sent team free will packing with their tails between their legs.

And... the demon remembered belatedly, Mrs preachy Prophet had mentioned in her little story that said lady Hunter owned _a lipstick red Chevy_ … that answered the question of who had been running through the moonlit woods.  
Well, well, Samuel Winchester was still the world champion of lady killing by association. Apparently, the peen of death continued unabated. Crowley smirked to himself.

“Crowley, only a demon can control a hell-hound, which means that one of your people was involved.” Sam eraniously lectured, much to Crowley’s continued amusement, Moose did such a wonderful nagging wife impersonation.

  
  
“If that were the case, I would know about it. There are no missing hellhounds.” Crowley smiled to himself, well pleased by the truth of his statements.  
“I was cuddling with them just last night.” Which was also true after a fashion, the hounds were the only minions of Hell that seemed to know how to do their jobs lately.

The rest of them were useless imbeciles that set his teeth on edge.

  
“Right,” Moose was unconvinced, “and you know nothing else of the other Hunters who are dying?”

"Not only don't I know, I don't care.” He replied and hung up.  
Crowley considered what he’d learned thoughtfully, and let out a harassed breath, continuing towards his goal with more urgency in his step.

  
  
The King of Hell swept into the room where he kept his favourite pet.

Chained, collared and manacled, yet annoyingly at ease.  
There he sat.  
Inside the blonde meatsuit that Sam Winchester’s little pet had spent so much angst over.

“Never thought of you as a cuddler, Crowley. Tell me more.” His chained pet jibbed, lifting his shoulders to mime mocking enthusiasm.

  
  
“More? I've been giving thought to your future. As my slave, you could be useful as a weapon, laying waste to my enemies, starting with a certain British bitch who's far too comfortable giving me ultimatums.” The black clad King of Hell spat in irritation, thinking of Hess.

  
“Are you done?” 

“No.” Crowley forced an unconvincing smile onto his lips to cover his irritation. “If you do have any information as to the whereabouts of Kelly Kline, and the spawn …” The blonde man looked away from Crowley, seeming to look right at Michele, with a smile he raised an eyebrow slightly.

The vision jolted and flickered.  
Crowley seemed to jump from one side of the room to the other, like surveillance footage that had had a chunk cut out of it and re-spliced.

“Hmm…. Interesting.” The blonde man appeared to be considering something. Then smiled mockingly.  
“Pass!”

“Mm... Think about it.” Crowley replied, tapped his wrist to indicate time passing “Tick-tock.”  
Then he turned on his heel and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

As the door shut, a dark skinned man, ?or demon? was revelled, standing behind the door. The man, ?or demon? took a shaky breath of relief.  


He’d obviously been hiding from Crowley.  
  
The chained blonde man stared straight at the other, tilted his head impatiently, “I need to get out of here” he announced. “Now!”


	93. Been a Crappy Week

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 93: Been a crappy week**

Dean took another swig of whisky directly from the bottle and looked across at the other bed in the room. Sam was wrapped in silence, doggedly making his way through his second tumbler of the same. His brother had pulled the ubiquitous Gideon bible out of the bedside draw, and it lay slantwise on the bed; occasionally Sam would run his fingers over the cover, like someone petting a dog, but he doesn’t open it.

Dean wasn’t sure how Sam felt about Chuck these days, but doubted he was feeling particularly devout right then.  
Nowadays, bibles make Dean think of Mitch, he wonders if it’s the same for Sam, or if he’s thinking of Pastor Jim Murphy, and the funeral services they’d witnessed as kids, at Jim’s church in Blue Earth, Minnesota.  
Those funerals and tonight’s activities, they were a world apart.  
For all Dean knows, Sam could be thinking of Jessica’s funeral. Times like these, what’s happening inside Sam’s big head is an impenetrable mystery.

Their investigation has been a bust.

Eileen hadn’t checked in to any of the motels in Charleston, S.C or any of the surrounding towns.  
There were no suspicious deaths, apart from Eileen’s in the area, everything argued she was simply passing through rather than working a case.  
Crowley claimed to know nothing, and the crime scene was devoid of any physical evidence of a Hellhound, except the way Eileen’s body had been torn up.  
There’d been no sulfur, giantass clawed footprints or any of the usual signs of a Hellhound, demon or supernatural fugley. No ectoplasm, hex bags, EMF, weird symbols or calling cards.

Highway patrol had found Eileen’s car, driver’s door wide open, run off the road into a tree, abandoned but still running. It was the reason they’d found her body so quickly.

Eileen’s car was clean … almost too clean.

It definitely hadn’t looked like the impala had after Ramsey had gone to town on it.  
Strangely there’d been no sign of her weapons or other Hunting gear.  
Like most Hunters worth their salt, her weapons compartment was protected, no demon could have looted it, and why would one?  
Eileen could have stowed her gear elsewhere. But again, why?

There were so many loose ends and unanswered questions, more questions than answers, and a grand sum of nothing useful, after two days of investigation.

Tonight, they’d given Eileen a Hunter’s funeral.

Tomorrow they were leaving. It felt so wrong, but Mom was still missing and there was nothing else they could do for Eileen.  
Sam wasn’t taking it well, sure, he could see the logic, hadn’t argued. But had barely spoken since their discussion.

Dean glanced at Sam’s laptop, lying open on the table next to the empty Chinese takeout cartons and beer bottles from dinner; a dinner that Sam had picked at over-long then eventually handed off to his brother, half eaten. 

He watched Sam’s fingers curl round the bible again, watched his brother raise the tumbler to his mouth again, take another long gulp of whiskey.  
Sam closed his eyes and lets his head fall back against the headboard, as the whiskey slid down his throat. 

Dean wondered what had happened with Sam and Eileen that night.

Sam’s taking this one hard and yeah Sammy always cares, but this time there’s an edge to it.  
He wonders exactly how much Mitch said to Sam about Eileen.  
Wonders if Mitch knows Eileen’s dead.  
Wishes she’d call.

Mitch would know what to say to Sam right now, she’s good at the emotional shit he always fails miserably at.

Dean got up off his bed, pulled up a chair and seated himself at the laptop.

Across the room Sam opens his eyes and blinks at him, groans and pouts.

“Dean, Dude! If you’re gonna look at porn on my laptop with me right here… I swear to God I’m gonna murder you, an’ I’m not gonna wait til you’re sleepin’, seri’sly… ” Sam bitches sloppily, alcohol apparent in his voice.

Dean ignores him, just clicks on the Skype app, logs in and stares at Mitch’s id.  
She’s online… he could call, maybe he should call.

Dean rubbed at the back of his neck and glanced over at Sam again, he had subsided back against the headboard with his eyes shut, and his glass empty.

  
  
Sam would probably prefer he watched porn rather than called Mitch right now, and there’s a small vicious part of him that wants to anyway, just to show Mitch that Sammy needs Hunter’s helper too sometimes, that everybody’s favourite ain’t always a saint.

Guiltily Dean shoved the impulse away.  
Pushed back from the laptop, got up, shoved his feet into his boots, grabs his gun, wallet, phone and keys.

Sam blinked at him blearily.

“D’n?”

“Goin’ for a drive Sammy.”

“Hol’up.. I’ll come with…” Sam pushed himself up.

“You try gettin’ off your ass, you’re gonna fall on your face, you’re wasted Sam. Get some sleep.”

“Hunters are dying D’n! Rick McNee…”

Yeah, the latest in the dead Hunter’s club was a guy Donna had worked with a couple of times, Mom had mentioned him once too, his specialty was Vamps.

Rick McNee, weekend vampire Hunter.

He’d turned up dead in his own home with his throat slit. No guarantee Ricky boy’s demise had anything to do with Eileen’s death or Mom’s silence, but Sam was fearing the worst. That’s what Sam invariably did...

“Sam!” He warned, voice set low, a command to back off, he really did not want to hear it. Sam flinched, then slumped in defeat.

It made Dean feel bad, again, but he wasn’t gonna back down. He just …. needed out of the room. “I just needta clear my head, okay?”

Sam shrugged, gave him his patented Sam Winchester scowl and waved a drunken hand. ‘Go then, Dean. See if I care. You get killed… I’m gonna kill you again for being a stupid asshole, then I’m gonna say, I told you so.’ One wave of the hand said it all.

…ooo0ooo…

“

Katarina, 8:54am  
Hi, M. I'm super late to answer this... But Hm, maybe by washing the child's clothes in holy water or introducing an object in the story that repeals demons... otherwise there are too many ways for a demon to grab a child???”

Reading the message on her phone, Michele sighs and lets her head fall back against the headrest in the car.

It has been nearly a week since she sent Kat the message she’s replying to.

Her Slovenian friend is young, and the young, they have their own priorities. Michele tries not to feel anything negative over it. That’s life.

 **8:46 am**  
**It’s okay Kat, that ship has sailed.**

She types by way of reply.

It doesn’t matter anymore, she’s come to the conclusion that her best defence is to send Crowley her chapters and behave, hope that he gets bored of threatening her.

Katarina, 8:47am  
Thought it might, you write fast... how did you stop the demon?

**8:47am**  
**I didn’t really.**

Michele replies and checks the time, she has 10 minutes before she needs to drop Chris with Paula and leave for the hospital. Chris is in his car seat in the back, waving two plastic toys about ecstatically; Johnny’s Minecraft zombie figurine and the Dalmatian from PawPatrol. It’s either battle royal, or a dance party going on back there, either way he’s happy for a few minutes.

**8:48am**  
**How are you anyway, how’s study and home… and everything?**

Katarina, 8:49am  
A little messy... working on doing better.

Michele nods to herself, Kat’s finding study an uphill slog still, and she and her Mother have their moments.

Katarina 8:49am  
I keep forgetting the precious info when too stressed. Are you planning to write anything for Sam’s birthday?

**8:50am**  
**Sam’s Birthday?**

Katarina. 8:51am  
May 2nd  
I keep forgetting you haven’t been in the fandom long. The fandom worked it out.  
May 2nd is 6 months before November 2nd, Sam was exactly 6 months old when yellow eyes infected him with the demon blood and Mary burned.  
The fandom celebrates Sam’s birthday by writing fanfiction stories, it is traditional now.

Michele grimaced… ‘The fandom.’ Is she part of ‘the fandom’? Ghads she hopes not!  
Because Sam, he just loves fanfiction ... so many of those stories, well they aren’t something he’d want to read… hers sure isn’t, and it’s true. Besides, He has even more reason to hate his birthday than she does. Being reminded that your brother sold his soul for you and was tortured in Hell for forty years.. 

Yeah, no.

**8:52am**  
**Let’s just say I’ll have my hands full of TTYH.**

  
  
She replies, trying for tact, rather than doing a rant about weird ‘fandom’ practices.

Katarina 8:52am  
You could make it part of your story.  
The dream you wrote of Sam… it was like he wished M to care about his birthday, to celebrate it.

Michele taps her phone against the steering wheel and wonders if Kat is right. Dreams are our hopes and fear.

Katarina, 8:53am  
You ruined all that sweetness when you turned it into a nightmare, made him worried about Lucy’s love child, everything was spoiled.

Katarina, 8:53am  
Sometimes, I hate your story.

Katarina, 8:53am  
No offence!

I -- - miss the happy of the beginning.

Michele bit her lip and felt her eyes sting.

**8:54am**  
**Sometimes, I hate it too my Sweetest Kat. AND I really miss the happy too.**

Katarina, 8:55am  
Maybe it is all the rain you see now.  
I will send you photos of my Mika cat and her kittens in the sun, like you did for me, with photos of your Slinky cat.  
You made me smile, this is what friends are for.  
To remind each other the sun will return.  
  
Kat offers sweetly.

**8:55am**  
**That would be nice, give Mika a hug for me. I better get going. We are parked outside the school and I need to drop Mr 2 off to my friend before my appointment.**

Katarina, 8:56am  
Will do. Drive safely my friend.

**8:56am**  
**Tehehe cute!**  
**Always do, Luv ya to Slovenia and back Cat!**

Katarina, 8:57am  
Love you too M.

Transfusions aren’t very good for doing most things, pinned down as you are by tubing and needles, but you get lots of time to think.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam woke next morning with an aching head, Dean had swept in, gifted him coffee and a breakfast burrito, was now hogging the shower.  
Waiting his turn Sam sipped his coffee and started checking his emails.

There was an email from Michele.

Oddly it was a video file.

He clicked to open it.

“Hey Sam.” Michele flashed the camera a nervous smile, pushed her hair back out of her face and lifted her chin like she was bracing herself.

“Sooo uhh, one of my fic friends tells me it’s your birthday…”

Sam frowned, he and Dean weren’t exactly great celebrators of birthdays, but… yeah, he checked the date on his screen, today was May 1st.

As if she could hear his thoughts, she gave the camera a rueful half smile. “And I bet you’re already to tell me how I have it wrong. Cos you’re a smarty pants Sam Winchester. But you see, my friend, you’re forgetting the facts. I not only see the future; I live in it. Here in New Zealand it is May 2nd and I know you hate many things about American May 2nd...but Kiwi May 2nd, today… there’s no stain on it. So, let’s make a deal, you can have Kiwi May 2nd and I’ll even take American March 21st off your hands, so it’s even swaps…

I don’t have your address … underground bunker in Kansas isn’t exactly in the phone book.”

She shrugged, tilted her head and gave the camera one of her wide-eyed looks, then lifted a bowl off the counter-top beside her.

Under it was an iced cupcake, with a candle on top and SAM written across it carefully in red icing.

“It’d be green, furry … and partially evolved by the time you got it anyway… So, we’re gonna go with ‘it’s the thought that counts,’ okay?”

She gave the camera a nervous look, lit the candle, then proceeded to sing Happy Birthday.

  
Halfway through, a second voice chipped in enthusiastically, she laughed and lifted the toddler up so he was in shot with her.

Sam felt a lump in his throat and his eyes burn, Michele was too much! He shook his head but couldn’t help smiling.  
As the song ended both she and the kid blew out the candle together.

“Happy Birthday Sam, you are worth celebrating. Don’t forget it.” She said simply and gave him another warm smile from half a world away, then the video cut out.

He sat for a long while, in the small pocket of warmth Michele had created.

Until, from the bathroom door Dean cleared his throat, making him jump. “Showers all yours Sammy.” Dean rumbled.

Sam closed the laptop guiltily and pushed past his brother into the bathroom.

…ooo0ooo…

“Hey, Mitch.”

“Hi Dean.” Michele lets out a breath, she’d hesitated to answer, but hearing his voice, she’s glad she did.

“You doin okay?”

Michele bites her lip, feels a shiver run through her. The urge to spill her guts rises up, she thinks of Johnny, and pushes it away.

“I’ve been better, and I’ve been worse,” she replies. It’s a hedging reply but it’s truthful.

“Yeah know the feeling…” Dean’s voice is weary, there’s a sound like rain in the background. “Hey ah… just wanted to let you know…” He cleared his throat and took a breath. “Eileen turned up dead a couple a days ago.”

Michele tries unsuccessfully to muffle the sound of pained surprise.

“O-h Dean… I’m so sorry.” Her voice comes out like a whisper around the lump in her throat, tears prick her eyes. “I’m so sorry...” she repeats again feeling sad for all the things that can never be now, for Sam.

“Yeah… me too. Eileen was … good people.” Dean lapsed into silence. “Sam’s been …” Dean stopped again, seemed to struggle with what to say. “Let’s just say it’s been a crappy week… Thought I oughta let you know…. And uh, say thanks for sendin’ him that message.”

“Yeah...” she half coughs, feeling embarrassed, “it seems kind of stupid now.”

“Nah, made him smile. Sometimes… a lotta the time, this life sucks Mitch, you… I dunno … you help. It’s … it’s good, ya know.”

They both lapse into silence for a while.

“How? How did she die, Dean?” She asks, almost scared of the answer. Eileen’s a hunter. Dean always said, in Edlund’s books, that Hunter’s stories end sad or bloody…

But, Eileen dedicated her life to saving others. Michele feels she ought to know. That it should be recorded in the Winchester gospel…

“Dunno, that’s the kicker. Highway patrol found her car, run off the road, found her body in the woods… Looked like a Hell-hound got her, but there was nothin’, no real evidence to be sure of, that sonofabitch Crowley says it wasn’t one of his douches…”

Michele frowns. Woods??? Why would a Hellhound… A spike of pain catches her off guard as her head floods with images and voices.

***

Michele came back, gasping for air, filled with horror.

Heard Dean barking her name like she was a puppy he was trying to call to heel.

Eileen had been the woman running through the woods … and now she is dead.

“Dean… vision… I’m, I’m okay.” She breathed.

“What didya see?”

“When Sam called Crowley… About Eileen. Crowley, he didn’t lie to Sam, I could feel that…

All of the Hellhounds are accounted for… it wasn’t a demon thing, I’m sorry.

Crowley, he’s … almost obsessed with finding Cas, Kelly and her child.

Even - even that thing I saw before, where he tortured the demon … in a convoluted way, it was all about that too…

That and … revenge.

Crowley, he sort of sees you guys as… his??”

Dean made a choking sound in her ear.

“Yeah, I know…” She agrees. “I’m not telling you to trust him or anything, he’ll happily stab you in the back if it suits his purposes. But… I think that’s why he saved Castiel. That... Possessive ugh... thing -pp I can’t explain it, but after a fashion he’s… happier because you guys are in the world.”

Dean made a harsh barking sound, something that could be taken as anything, from agreement to derision or disgust.

She didn’t ask for clarification, overwhelmed with a sudden fear that she’d said too much.

“Dean I’m so sorry about Eileen. I wish I had answers that helped more.”

So much guilt, if only she’d known more, been able to work it all out… She wonders if Eileen would be alive, if she’d just drunk the demon blood Crowley had offered her that day. Shoves the thought away, shakily.

“You do help Mitch.” Dean muttered. “And you should rest, yeah? Know the visions kick your ass.”

“Yeah…”

“Good girl.”

That dragged a huff of annoyance out of her “Condescending much Winchester?!” She groused and cut the call, before he could get a word of response in.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam leaned against the impala; phone in hand. Glad to be out of the car and standing after a long day in the car. He’d left this call till last and Dean’s in the post office clearing their PO Box; picking up the next batch of fraudulent credit cards, they’ve got a system, apply for credit cards using PO boxes states away, then bounce them around a few times through mail forwarding.

“I don’t know what else to tell you Sam. I agree it’s passing strange with so many Hunters dying, but they’re all dying from different things. Every Hunter that has fetched up on my doorstep says the same. I will of course give you a call if I hear anything. In the meantime, be safe.” Lorraine Fox seemed more sanguine than she’d been at Asa’s wake.  
She hadn’t mentioned Alicia’s death and Sam hadn’t brought it up. He wonders distantly if Max had even called his grandmother yet. He wonders if Lorraine would have taken his call if Max had.

“Yeah. Yeah, no, I appreciate it. Thanks.”

They hang up as he sees Dean coming down the post office steps.

“So I've been calling around about all of the Hunters that died. Um, every one of them had years of experience...” Dean didn’t answer his eyes still on the mail in his hand, frowning.

“We got a letter, from Eileen.” Dean announced.

“Eileen?” Sam pushes himself up off the car.

“She sent it four days ago. It went snail mail 'cause she thought that her phone and her computer were both hacked. She left Ireland because she was scared.” Dean gives him a slow blink.

“Scared of what?” Sam demanded staring at his brother’s face with a sinking feeling.

“Well, after she accidentally killed that – that Brit douche Renny, she thought that the British Men of Letters were on her.” Dean handed him the letter.

Sam scanned the letter in his hands "I know they're following me, watching me. They tapped my phone. I found a microphone in my room.” Sam read out loud, feeling his throat tighten “I hate to be all girly, but could I bunk with you guys for a few days until I sort this out?" He barely got the last word out. Rolled his eyes skyward struggling for control… how long after she’d posted this had she died?

“You think the Brits were watching her?” Dean asked.

Eileen wasn’t a paranoid nut job. She’d always struck him as someone with her feet firmly on the ground.

“If Eileen says they were –“he gritted his teeth.

“Then maybe they're the ones that killed her.” Dean grated.

He’d never trusted the Men of Letters and with Ketch lying about seeing Mom it made a horrible sort of sense.

Feeling sick, nodded accent.

A thought hit him, “Dean, Mick said…”

“Yeah, I remember. Those assholes have a key to our house.”

“That means …”

“We better sweep the bunker, Yeah.”


	94. Not what I pictured

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 94: Not what I picture**

Demons don’t need to eat or sleep, they don’t per se need furniture either.  
And yet here Crowley sits, on his throne staring down at an endless stream of twisted souls, listening to their endless boasting, attempts to curry favour, petty disputes and whining.  
It is something he once revelled in, but now it’s a chore, this giving the minions something to believe in.

Knows, if he doesn’t, one of the hierarchy upstarts will get ideas above their station and begin looking at the vacant throne.

So, he makes the effort, trots downstairs regularly, signs his name to the paperwork and presides over the kingdom of the damned, just enough to allow the minions to feel like the reins are in good hands.  
Visibility is currency, and image is everything.

It is his sentence in Hell.

Bored beyond words, Crowley screens out the current suited demon waffling in front of him and looks out over the heaving sea of supplicants.

  
God created a finite number of angels, but the damned are a renewable resource…  
The problem isn’t the quantity here, it’s the _quality_ of said supply. He muses over this, and realises that he’s tapping his foot impatiently, again.

  
Stops himself and goes back to gazing out at the crowd, makes a game of staring intensely at a random individual in the sea, savours the looks of guilty panic and terror that being singled out elicits from the riffraff.  
Everyone’s a sinner, so sayith the latest Prophet of the Lord.

Crowley wonders if he has done enough pretending to care yet.

Too many of the demons coming off the racks are imbeciles nowadays, maybe it’s the raw material. Secretly, Crowley blames the internet, mass media and westernised school systems for it, this endless parade of imitators and copycats, none of them are capable of true sui generis, that je ne sais quoi that makes a demon of distinction.

Maybe it’s the rack staff….  
True, Alistair was a complete psycho. He _liked_ Hell. No one with anything resembling sense likes Hell….  
He had been however, Picasso with a blade…

The new yobbos are like the proverbial bull in the china shop by comparison. No finesse.

Now the dust has cleared, he almost wishes he’d kept Meg. After her incompetence and exorcism at the hands of the flannel brigade, her sponsor, Azazel, had gifted her to Alistair for a bit. Remedial training, apparently.  
One on one, close up and personal with the fine arts of torture.

She had been a whore, but by all accounts, she had been a passably intelligent, skilled whore.

She had certainly given him some fun, from the opposite end of the sharp and pointies.

  
It was a crying shame, all Alistair’s prodigies were Lucifer loyalists, and had to be liquidated.

Excepting Dean, of course… he’d held up such high hopes for dearest Squirrel, when Metatron poked a hole in him and he rose as a knight of Hell. Thanks to the mark of Cain, he, Crowley had procured for him.  
Pity Demon!Dean had no more gratitude in him than the flannel clad, hunter version; that he was uncontrollable and more interested in porking blonde, dead-end, skank waitresses and singing bad karaoke, than doing something useful with his new-found power.  
Pity he’d acted out and forced Crowley’s hand, made his number one Bestie sell him back to angst ridden, deep-ending Moose. Who, of course, cured him and made him all woebegone and angsty again. _Winchesters!_ it was like throwing pearls before swine, such a waste! Dean had been one of Alistair’s last real prodigies.  
Crowley remembers going down there to the racks with Lilith once. Watching Alistair work on him, in the early days, not long after the righteous man, breaker of the first seal, climbed down off the rack.

Crowley recalls the flutterings of a vague jealousy, watching Alistair croon in the soul’s ear about his potential, what an apt pupil he was, how even in the death camps of Poland, Alistair had never found anyone close to Deans raw talent - Then had come that momentary twitch of Dean’s lips, the fleeting glimmer of pride in his eye. Followed by that horrified realisation of how he’d responded – It Prompted Dean to turn the blade upon himself in a fit of self-loathing;  
Lilith and Alistair had laughed like a pair of fond parents over it.

Then, the Halos came and plucked him away. Michael’s one true vessel, who could never just pull with the program. Thank Chuck for small mercies!

Sam and Dean Winchester, saviours of the human race _and demon kind_ , even if the two mutton heads couldn’t cognise the fact. Crowley could. Without humanity, demon kind would be a dead-end species like angels.

Lucifer cared nothing for demons. Lilith was his first, yet in the end she was nothing more to The Morning Star than another seal to break. They were all just fodder, broken toys to throw at what Lucifer hated most, humanity…

Crowley had worked it out after Lilith, if Lucifer hated humanity and blamed it for his fall from God’s supreme favourite, his contempt for demon kind came a close second. 

  
Crowley wonders what Dean’s doing right now.

Have he and Moose worked out that the British Men of Letters are behind the death of Eileen Leahy, and the other subpar Hunters? Has their little mongrel Prophet caved and told them what big bad Crowley is threatening to do with her precious offspring? These are the things that really pique his interest, not the endless disputes of the dead.

Crowley draws out the blood encrusted handkerchief, the one he used to mop the prophet’s bloody face, holds it to his nose and breaths in deeply. Reminiscing on the moments in the park, he feels a familiar craving raise its head.

  
With an irritated wave he vaporises the current whining petitioner.

“And that concludes today’s audience with The King.” He declares, voice pitched to carry to the furthest reaches, and gets to his feet. “You all have more productive things to do. I advise you to do them. **_Now!_** ”

Fearing the worst, a surge of demons scramble over each other for the exits.

With a flick of his hand he vaporises a few of the lesser stragglers, making sure to get that one demon, the one that held his stare for far too long, the little prat had practically been loitering! Now he could loiter on the floor, as dust.

Occasionally, it paid to be a little unpredictable, to remind the ranks of lesser demons of the sheer power he wielded.

…..

Returning topside, the King of Hell pours himself a tumbler of Craig and collapses into the chair behind his ornate black oak desk.

He dips the corner of the bloody handkerchief he’s still holding into the scotch. Savours a mouthful, rolling the liquor over his tongue languidly, trying to identify the various subtle notes of flavour, to his scotch with a twist.

After a while Crowley pulls out his phone and scrolls through the emails, he isn’t willing to trust any of his people to deal with.

More chapters of the continuing saga await him. He dives in eagerly, looking forward to seeing himself immortalised in print once more. The voyeurism aspect to the whole thing is, quite frankly delicious. And the scenes with Chirone had been _rather_ enjoyable also...

If only team free will knew what he’d sold off to the British Men of letters…

…ooo0ooo…

Michele is standing waiting for the lift, up to the blood sampling laboratory, with her toddler attempting to pickpocket the car keys, when she gets a call from a blocked number.  
It’s not unusual, she gets two or three calls from blocked numbers a day, they’re usually from the hospital.

“Hello, Michele Chadwick speaking, how can I help?” She enquires brightly while pulling a face at Chris to make him giggle.

“What the Hell is this!” The replying voice snarls - It is the kind of voice you’d expect in response to a 1am prank call, not one calling you at 9.30am. Obviously, the rude person on the other end has the wrong number.

“I’m very sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong…” she began.

“Prophets can’t lie my arse; your latest communiqué is a giant load of tosh.” The gruff English accented voice sneered, and suddenly it made sense.

“Crowley?” She questioned, hoping she was wrong.

“Ding, ding, ding, give the woman a stuffed bear.”

Michele pushed her hair out of her face with a sigh.

“Crowley, how …? No, never mind.” She sighed wearily, “I know you’re a demon, but let me explain something. Just because you don’t like what you read, or it’s full of grammar errors, it doesn’t mean it’s not true.” The lift arrived, and she took Chris’ hand and led him inside. Shifted Chris' small fiddly fingers away from the buttons she pressed the right floor with her hand holding the phone.

  
When she put the phone back to her ear, the line was dead. Crowley has hung up.

“Lovely! Demons are worse than teenaged girls _and_ Winchesters.” She muttered to herself in disgust shoving her phone back in her pocket.

“Untrue!” An annoyed gravelly voice to her left made her jolt and yip in surprise.

She turned slowly, to face the Monarch, and stepped between the demon and her son as inconspicuously as she could.

Crowley scowled at her and crossed his arms, all impeccable black suit, scruffy beard and beetled eyebrows.

“Crowley! Don’t…” She winced and stopped herself, (people like Crowley don’t respond well to being told not to do things, she still remembers his response to her saying No to the demon blood.) 

“I’m not saying the whole irate stalker that doesn’t like the writers latest work thing didn’t sell novels for Steven King... But … I really don’t understand _.”_

“Come now Poppet, you know damn well! I don’t pay you to write flights of fantasy.”

The lift doors opened, and Michele stepped out.

“Strictly speaking you don’t pay me at all, Crowley. And if you didn’t like reading the portrayal of you, pushing me round and threatening my son, I can’t help that.”

Crowley followed her out of the lift.  
He stood uncomfortably close, something she really hated tall men doing. It made her far more aware of how small and vulnerable she was by comparison. Which was probably something Crowley knew, betted it was a technique he’d learned in his first year, demonic intimidation class.

“That’s not the bit I find offensive Darling, it was the non-sexual fantasy in the middle.”

“Well, I’m sorry my fic doesn’t have enough sex scenes for your liking or whatever. Go read something off of AO3 if you want that sort of thing, and leave me and my family alone.  
I write what I have to, what happens, I don’t have a choice, okay?

You turned up in _my_ kitchen, thinking I’m a dodo… thinking I’m ugly and frumpy... This,” she waved a hand, “is how mums, who have a lot going on, look! Especially the ones who aren’t self absorbed bitches! Maybe, if your mother had spent more time being a Mum and less time studying witchcraft and social climbing, maybe _you_ wouldn’t be a demon now, and we’d all be better off!” She flared, pushed through the swing doors into the waiting room, gave the receptionist her test request form and took a seat. Sat taking deep even breaths, Crowley was even more infuriating than Dean!

Crowley sat down next to her and looked at her weirdly, stroking the beard stubble beside his mouth.

“Give me a brief synopsis of that chapter, Poppet.” He requested in a totally different tone of voice.

“You read it, why…” Crowley just stared at her and raised an eyebrow.

“Fine!” She huffed, “You appeared in my kitchen. Thought I was… not up to standards.” She outlined, trying to keep the resentment out of her voice. “You stuck your fingers in my cupcake batter, and then you offered me the demon blood. I turned it down, then you threatened me and pushed me round for a bit. Told me I’d do what you wanted, _because you’re the King of Hell_. Then you suddenly changed your mind. Threatened Johnny and said I’d better give you spoilers and not tell the Winchesters anything. Then vanished.”

Crowley grunted, looking like he was thinking over something very hard, and fished out a pair of dirty handkerchiefs from his coat pocket. It looked like he licked them. Ugh!

“Bollocks, it’s the same.” He muttered grumpily under his breath, side-eyed her, then turned to stare at her intently once more.

Ten minutes of weird looks and strained silence later, a phlebotomist came out and called her name. Ignoring Crowley, she carried Chris into the bleeding room and put him on a chair in the corner and gave him her phone to watch some PawPatrol on.

Crowley followed them in uninvited, and loomed behind the nurse while she checked the details on the form and labelled the blood tubes, placed a tourniquet, found a vein, and took the required blood tubes…

It was creepy how intently Crowley watched the needle go in and the blood tubes fill.

But then, Michele supposed, he was a demon, wasn’t he? It _was_ sort of to be expected. Of course, he liked watching someone hurt her.

Once everything was over with, Crowley followed her back into the lift.

Michele began to worry that the demon intended following her round all day.

“Next stop is the library for us.” She voiced, hoping he’d take the hint.

It didn’t work.

“Lovely! The children’s librarian with the gravity defyingly short dress. Do lead on Darling. Refreshments after, are on you.” He smirked sounding chipper and enthusiastic.

Internally Michele groaned and wondered if she could risk reciting an exorcism to get rid of him.

……

Upon entering the children’s section, Crowley stopped dead. “That? That’s _her_ isn’t it?!” The demon hissed turning betrayed, offended eyes down to her. 

Despite herself, a small snort of amusement slipped out as she looked back up at him. “Yes.” She answered demurely, “that’s Stephanie. And keep your voice down, you’re embarrassing me.”

“Embarrassing you?!!” Crowley dragged her around the corner by her arm; puffed up and pissed off, like a wet cat. He pulled out a phone and began scrolling through her story on it

It wasn’t difficult to guess what he was up to; he was looking for ammunition to call her a liar, again.

Finally, The King of Hell grunted and shoved the phone back into his coat pocket looking miffed.

“ _That_ , that was _not_ what I pictured.” He muttered shortly.

“With Men, it never is.” She rolled her eyes. “Yes, okay I admit it, it’s sort of jarring and I would never have the balls or confidence to pull it off. But…you know... her legs _are_ her best feature… if you look at it objectively... Why _shouldn’t_ she flaunt them.

Crowley gave her a baleful glare.

“Us mums find her inspirational, I mean… wow! That right there” she gestured back towards the children section, “is the epitome of self confidence and being happy in your own skin… no matter what others think. And okay, maybe I’ve got a bit of horrified fascination going on with it too... but mostly I’m in awe …” She shrugged her shoulders feeling a little embarrassed.

“It’s unseemly,” Crowley pouted “like staring at a hippo on stilts.” He shuddered theatrically.

“Crowley.” She bit out, “if you cause a scene… I’ve got consecrated salt in my pocket and I _will_ use it.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow and tilted his head challengingly.

“Into a bit of S&M are we kitten? And you pretend butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth! I promise, I won’t tell Samantha if you want to go somewhere and experiment...”

She felt her mouth drop open in shock, felt her cheeks heat, felt a bit like puking.

“I just think you’re a hypocrite, _and_ have no manners, you’re complaining about how some woman dresses because she’s not 100% gorgeous and here you are. Quite literally as ugly as sin, wearing a corpse!” She answered snippily after far too much time had passed for it to be a decent come back.

“Bet you and your little Mommy friends speculate on whether the Minger’s wearing underwear, don’t you Pet? You’re all like rubber-neckers at an accident scene, admit it.” The demon smirked and gave her an obnoxiously knowing look, as Chris dragged her back towards the children’s section.

Michele didn’t answer.

Crowley trailed after them.

The demon was fiddling with something in his pocket, looking edgy. Why he didn’t just leave, was beyond her.  
The King of Hell stuck out like a sore thumb in his black designer suit and tie. 

Spying a copy of ‘Slinky Malinki’s Cat Tales’ she took it down off the shelf and handed it to him.

“Here.” she offered.

He took it, prowling the edges of the children’s space, as he flicked through the storybook.

  


Catching a glimpse of the illustration of Scarface Claw confronting himself in the mirror, from where she watched him Michele couldn’t help smiling.  
She couldn’t help but think that deep down, Crowley had a bit in common with the fictional Tom Cat.

Crowley hung round awkwardly, at the back, throughout all the action songs, and Michele left him to it, focused on her son. She couldn’t stop herself from keeping an eye on him though, felt tense and jittery, waiting for trouble.  
Then, halfway through Stephanie reading the second story, he vanished, book still in hand.

Five minutes later the blood lab called to apologetically tell her they’d missed drawing a blood tube, and could she please come back in. Funny thing was, she knew they’d drawn all the blood they needed for the ordered tests.

…..

**_One day, a demon followed us to story time, he came all dressed in black._ **

****

**_He looked rather uncomfortable and lurked round at the back._ **

****

**_As demons go, he behaved himself, I will admit to that._ **

****

**_Only made the lights flicker once, and left sulphur on the mat._ **

****

**_I don’t know why he followed us, maybe he just wanted to look._ **

****

**_At the librarians very short dress, and to steal the Slinky book._ **

****

**_Demons visit story time, so please don’t talk to strangers._ **

****

**_Even at the library, dear child, the world is full of dangers._ **

…ooo0ooo…

Two hours later while Michele was feeding Chris lunch, she had a vision.

The first part was a fleeting view of Crowley. Sitting behind an opulent desk. Sinking the needle of a blood filled syringe into his arm, of the demon sighing and letting his head fall back in obvious pleasure.

The other was of the blonde man/demon Crowley kept chained in his basement.

……

“Check it again.” The blonde man snarled threateningly, with his hands wrapped round the neck of the dark skinned man ?or demon? The one that had been hiding behind the door in a previous vision. The blonde blonde man pushed the other away roughly, he fell back, coughing and looking panicked.

Then, struggled to compose himself, rubbed his hands together and took a deep breath, held out his hands like he was trying to sense heat with his palms.

“This...this can't be.” He stammered looking shocked.

“Do not tell me it's powering up.” The blonde chided forbiddingly.

“It's powering up – “

“I asked you not to tell me that.” The blonde snapped.

“But in the opposite direction! This is amazing!” The dark man enthused.

“What?”

“The device, it's cemented directly into your DNA, and that of the King's. As it's powering down in you, the polarity is somehow... reversing.”

The blonde shook his head in incomprehension. “English, Drexel!” He snapped again.

“The ability to control is... transferring from Crowley, to you.”

The blonde grinned and held up a hand “…So you're saying that Crowley's gonna be _my_ puppet!”

Drexel nodded back and grinned.


	95. Such a little thing

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 95: Such a little thing**

They searched the bunker from top to bottom, hoping against hope to find nothing.

It took hours, just to search the areas they used most often; through all the dust and clutter, they and the previous men of Letters had collected. Every dusty shelftop, dark corner, jar, box and container… It was a mammoth task.

When he finally found something, Dean had to close his eyes and fight the spike of rage he felt, the urge to swear and throw things in fury.

Such a tiny thing, but it signified so much. The small listening device was under the map table in the war room.

It was right where he liked to sit, and clean the weapons, beside the holster with his emergency gun.

Such a little thing.

The placement felt personal. Said that whoever invaded their home, planted it there, knew them, or how they worked. Knew their routines and was mocking them.

Dean wanted to Kill the bastards!

Instead, he waved a hand to signal Sam, pointed meaningfully at what he’d discovered.

Sam crouched down beside him and peered at the bug hidden under the map-table. When he saw it, he winced and clenched his fist, let out a slow hissing breath, his hazel eyes narrowed in rage.

Had Mick planted the bug on the night they’d all got drunk together?  
Despite himself, Dean had begun to think of Mick as a good guy, had even been concerned over his silence, since his ‘recall to home office.’

Was that whole thing a play?

Maybe the bug had been planted before that? Maybe Ketch planted it, when he turned up at the door with that bottle of Whiskey, before the thing with the vamps?  
Dean would rather blame Ketch than Mick, there was something about Ketch that never sat right, he had all the characteristics of a human being but not a single identifiable emotion. A proper English psychopath, one who kept looking at him like they were kindred spirits. It creeped him out.

Or…. had the damned listening device been lurking under the map-table since Toni Bevell broke in and stole Sam?

_Sonofabitch!_ Dean whacked his balled fist into his thigh, making Sam flinch beside him.

They’d never thought to check for something like listening devices. Every conversation they’d had in the war room or library was a possible leak to an unknown enemy.

Their private lives laid bare, held up for scrutiny and mockery.

Who ever was responsible was gonna pay!

Dean glanced at Sam’s face again. It had taken Sam forever to feel safe after having Lucifer in the bunker, after the Bitch of Letters waltzed in and abducted him.

This clawed those same wounds open again, exposed his brother’s flayed nerves, again.

Sam hid it well, but Dean knew the signs.

Why hadn’t they even thought of the possibility? Damnit!

Why’d they been so stupid?

They’d thought the bunker was impenetrable, safe, a fortress... but the brother torturing assholes had had them where they wanted, the entire time.

Or had they?

They needed to use this to turn the tables. Their enemy knew they were suspicious about the Hunter deaths and Moms disappearance, but they didn’t know about Eileen’s letter, they didn’t know they knew about the listening device.

Time for the overconfident assholes to learn what it felt like to be the prey, what it was to be Hunted.

“Those Hunters you were talking to, is one of them Terry Marsh?” Dean finally broke the silence, waving a hand for his brother to run with it.

“Yeah, Terry Marsh in Missouri. I talked to him. He, uh, he's also thinking it's not monsters doing the real killing.” Sammy played along.

“Okay, well, I got a text from him. He's been nosing around; says he's got a fair idea of what's going on.”

“And?”

“And, he doesn't feel safe talking about it on the phone. He wants to meet.

The old iron works off the interstate.” The iron works was a place they’d scoped many times, it was the perfect place to set up an ambush, “Tomorrow night at 9:00. He says park off the road by the warehouse.”

“All right.” Sam clenched his fist.

They’ve set a trap, now it just remained to be seen what they would catch.

“Til then, tomorrow’s your birthday, like the lady said...” Sam tensed and gave him a hard look, didn’t like him mentioning Mitch one bit.

  
Dean raised an eyebrow and rolled his head in return, silently asking if Sam thought he was a complete idiot, or if he was just that overprotective.

  
Sam shrugged, his bottom lip poking out slightly in an expression that screamed ‘yeah kinda,’ in reply.

Dean let a breath trickle slowly from his nostrils.  
Until they worked out how long they’ve been under surveillance, how deep it went, and who was behind it… they needed to keep everyone and everything that mattered at arms length.

“…I’m thinkin’ we oughta go out, celebrate. Paint the town a nice tasteful shade of beige… or whateva your aging heart desires.” He continued the conversation.  
Sam’s mouth twitched once, in something resembling apology and nodded.

“Speak for yourself, aging heart pffftt!” Sam scoffed, “No matter how you cut it, Dean. You’ve got 4 years on me. And I’m not pursuing suicide by cholesterol, with every meal.” Sam’s reply sounds perfectly easy when it comes, but his face is not, he turns and stomps up the bunker’s stairs.

Halfway up, Sam’s phone begins chiming with a Skype call.

Sam rejects it without a word. Turns off his Skype app. Dean pulls out his phone and does likewise.

…ooo0ooo…

They drove to nearby Smith Centre, the closest town with a movie theatre. Leaving the impala parked outside they entered the theatre building and hastily changed clothes in the rest room, then left by a fire exit into an alley.

Sam boosted a car and they drove to the iron works to check the lay of the land and set their trap.

…ooo0ooo…

Later Sam and Dean returned, arriving at the old ironworks plant just before 9pm, as if they hadn’t spent time there only hours before.

It was dark, a chill had already settled into the air, and the first spits of rain were falling. 

Dean bitched about the potholes and mud as they climbed out of the impala, the backs of their necks itched, a feeling of being watched. Most likely their prey would be parked behind the bushes or shipping containers. Close, but not too close. The lighting from the warehouse where the impala was parked, would draw the eye.

Striding easily, a conversation about the imaginary Hunter Terry Marsh flowing between them, they looked for all the world completely at ease, as they walked around to the side of the building, and up the stairs.

They left the door open behind them, crossed the space and exited silently out a side entrance, locking it.

  
Circled back, just in time to see two men dressed in black combat fatigues, carrying guns, go stealthily up the stairs.

  
Before the men could realise it was a trap, Sam slammed the door shut, Dean barred it with a hefty length of iron piping he had ready.

“They’re just grunts,” Dean muttered distainfully, “hope who ever’s behind this shitshows waitin’ with their transport.”

“If not, we’ll have to go back in, and interrogate them.”

Dean nodded shortly.

Together the brothers circled back around, loping silent through the darkness.  
A new model black car came into view. Right where they expected.  
Inside, sat a lone figure.  
The slight stature, lack of bulky combat gear and the glint of jewellery at throat and ears, proclaimed it to be a woman. Someone in charge.

She was holding a gun and the set of her shoulders looked tense.

Sam faltered half a step as he abruptly recognized Toni Bevell.

He looked across and met Dean’s eyes.

In the darkness, Dean’s face was set in hard lines of fury, he must have recognized her too.

Exchanging nods, they took up their positions, either side of the car.

Sam rammed the iron bar he carried, into the passenger window.  
Shattering it, and drawing Toni’s attention and fire; as his brother ripped open Toni’s door and grabbed her gun.

Tossed it away.

Toni came out of the car fighting. Kneed Dean in the balls.

Dived for the gun.  
Her hand _almost_ closed on it, but Sam was there.  
He planted his boot down hard on the gun. Aimed his own her head.

Toni climbed to her feet, hands raised, eyes never leaving his.

Toni Bevell, the woman who starred in Sam’s nightmares still, stared at him assessing him.

Her blue eyes were cold and hard, faintly amused.

Despite the fact he held a gun on her, she looked at him scornfully, in a way that said she remembered their previous time together.

Knew that now that their roles were reversed, he’d never have it in him to do to her, what she had done to him; and thought less of him for it.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam kept his gun trained on Toni in the back of the impala, body half turned in his seat, beside Dean.

As yet, she hadn’t said a word, just stared back at him looking aloof and cool.

“Why you spying on us? Oh- and what do you know about Eileen Leahy?” He finally broke the silence.

“Who?” Toni asked, giving him a mockingly confused look.

“Did you – did – did your people, did they kill her?” Dean grated from beside him.

“Probably.” Toni smiled and tilted her head. The brothers exchanged a quick look, as she continued. “Rule of thumb – if you think we killed someone, then we probably did.” She informed them primly.

“Speaking of, you do realize that by attacking me, you invite the retribution of the entire British Men of Letters? No Investigation, no trial. Just punishment and ruin. Possibly at the hands of Mary Winchester.” Sam flinched at their mother’s name, glanced to Dean.

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” His brother snarled.

“Your mother – she's our permanent guest.”

“She's your prisoner?” Sam asked. “Why?”

“Prisoner? Who said anything about prisoner? No, Mary's joined the team. Even has her own super secret decoder ring.” Toni mocked.

Sam shook his head with a hiss of derision, “You're lying.”

“You're right. There is no ring.” Toni tilted her head and smiled. “Oh, boys and their mum's,” she cooed. “See, you see her as Mummy.

We see her as one of our best killers.”

“You know, just 'cause she works with Ketch doesn't mean she likes him. Or you.” Dean barked in reply.

“Oh, that Oedipal myopia again.” Toni smiled condescendingly, leaned forward. “...And did you _really_ think she was just "working" with Ketch? All of those days _and nights?”_ A cultured purr of amusement.

Sam took a breath, felt ill. Could it be true? Beside him, Dean shifted.

“That's enough.” He warned.

“…He said it was some of the best sex he'd ever had.” She taunted.

Dean slammed on the breaks.

“You wanna rethink that?” He snarled turning to face her.

“Fine! He said it was _the_ best sex he'd ever had.”

Dean lunged.

“Dean, Dean!” Sam called catching his arm, his grip trying to remind him there was more at stake than emotions, right now.

Toni laughed, delighted.

“All right.” Sam warned.

“Keep it up.” Dean invited fuming and slammed his fists against the steering wheel.

“What about Mick? Where is he in all of this?” 

“Mick?” Toni queried.

“Yes, Mick.” He snapped in return.

“Oh,” Toni’s smiled looking at him like he was an idiot. “Mick's dead.”

Sam was shocked. “He's dead?” He asked stupidly, looking to Dean, feeling simultaneous horror and relief at the news.

“Quite! It was determined he was too sentimental for the job. Turns out, he was too much like you two and all the other U.S. Hunters... Ergo, soon each and every Hunter in this country will join him. Jody Mills, Claire Novak, all of your other flannel-wearing, whiskey-swilling friends. They're dead.”

Face like thunder, Dean planted his foot firmly on the accelerator.

…ooo0ooo…

Time to put the listening device in the bunker to work, Sam thought.

Dean led Toni Bevell down the bunker’s stairs. Sam followed behind; gun unerringly trained on the British woman of Letters. Part of him begged for a reason to pull the trigger, but that would make him no better than her.

“So, we're clear? You call Ketch, tell him if he wants to see you alive, he gets his prissy ass over here.” Dean instructed.

As they stepped off the stairs, Ketch and a second man stepped out from behind the pillars that flanked the library entrance. Both were holding guns.

“Interestingly, his prissy ass is already here.” He announced pompously.

Behind and to the sides, two further armed soldiers stepped out of cover, their weapons raised, blocking all the exits out of the war room, except the stairs they’d just come down.

“Lady Bevell, would you mind disarming them?”

Sam met his brother’s eyes. Then raised his hands meekly, gun coincidentally pointed out to the side.

As Toni reached for his gun. Sam aimed and fired. Killing the guard on his side, and wrapped his other arm round Toni’s throat, effectively turning her into a human shield.

He knew, Dean was drawing his gun at the same moment, while Ketch and the others were watching him.

The guard on Dean’s side fell dead moments later. Sam pulled Toni back towards cover, in the recently vacated doorway, down to the basement level.

From his position, Sam saw Ketch motion to the soldier beside him, saw the man go for the west corridor.

From opposite entrances the brothers shared another look, Sam jerked his head. (Go, he’s circling behind, west corridor.) Dean moved off.

Sam took a couple more shots at Ketch.

Ketch returned them.

Distantly Sam heard a single shot from the west corridor.

Hoping the lone shot meant the guard was dead and Dean alive, Sam took more shots at Ketch.

Then Dean was there, sliding in and snatching Ketches gun out of his hand.

“Get up.” Dean grated, gun against Ketch’s neck.

“All right, Ketch, how many more guys are in here?”

“Our Mom – Where is she?!” Dean cut in.

Sam heard steps and glanced behind him to see his mother, walking up the steps from the basement level. Gun raised.

“Don't move.” Mary Winchester advised.

“Ah, speak of the devil.” Muttered Ketch.

“Perfect timing, Mom.” Sam greeted.

“Just stay where you are.” Mary suggested and Ketch bent as if to go for his gun.

“Hey! You heard her.” Dean warned, jerking him upright again.

“I was talkin' to you.” His mother told Dean, gun pointed right at him.

Dean’s eyes widened in confusion. “Mom?”

Mary fired a shot, it ricocheted off the the wall by Deans head and he flinched in shock, giving Ketch an opening to disarm him.

“Ketch, stop!” Sam barked.

“I really wouldn't move. She will shoot you.” Ketch advised calmly both guns raised.

Mary walked up to him and took Sam’s gun, then backed away, both guns trained on her sons.

Toni Bevell jerked out of Sam’s grip. “Mummy always was a talented Hunter. Just somewhat confused about obeying orders.”

“What did you do to her?” Sam demanded in horror, staring at his mother.

“Lady Bevell cleared up that confusion. And I suspect she told you that the American Hunters are a dying breed. Hmm?”

Toni smiled nastily at them and went to follow Mary and Ketch up the stairs to the entrance.

“Oh. For heaven's sake,” Ketch chided raising his gun on her, “where do you think you're going?”

“Ketch.” For the first time Toni looked shocked.

“Remember at Kendricks, how they taught us that we were all expendable? That wasn't idle chat.”

Dean hadn’t taken his eyes off their Mother, “Mom? Look at me.”

Mary looked down from the mezzanine railing, both guns pointed at them still.

“It's us. Please! What's wrong with you? Mom!” Dean pleaded, again trying to get through to their Mom, but her face remained placid and detached, holding no recognition.

Ketch stepped to her side, smiling coolly down at them.

“Your bunker is an excellent fortress. An even better tomb. So, we've rejiggered the locks, we've shut off the water, and once we leave, the pumps that bring in the air, shall reverse. Your oxygen should be gone in … two days, maybe three. You dying in here, it's almost poetic, hmm?” He crowed, as if they should be impressed that he’d found an inventive way to kill them. 

Ketch turned away from the railing, suddenly as if bored.

“Come along, Mary.”

The bunker door slammed shut.

Dean dashed up the bunker’s stairs and slammed his fists into the door.

“Noooo!!!” He screamed.

…ooo0ooo…

Hours ahead, half a world away, another voice joined him.


	96. Inevitable

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 96: Inevitable**

Phillip Chadwick stared down at his wife’s sleeping face and felt numb.

He’d almost lost her.

Paula said she’d had some kind of turn, another nosebleed, that she’d been _really_ upset and had tried calling someone, got more upset when the person didn’t pick up.

Then, she’d run out the door and straight across the road.

She hadn’t even looked.

Got hit by a car.

Michele could be dead, right now.

But she isn’t, she’s here, and mostly whole.

He hasn’t lost her.

She has a broken wrist. They thought she had concussion, but she doesn’t, she’s covered in scrapes and has lost more blood...

The doctor just told him all that.

It feels so wrong, doctors are Michele’s job, she knows what they’re talking about, knows all the right questions to ask.

She can get lost even driving with a GPS, but she knows doctors and stuff.

Now _he’s_ lost, cut adrift and can’t seem to keep up. She’s his GPS for this stuff.

He almost lost her...

But she’s okay, he hasn’t lost her ( ** _yet_** … his traitorous mind whispers. Yet...)

_She’s okay,_ he tells himself again, strokes his hand over the tussled waves of her hair to calm himself.

“I don’t understand,” he said looking back to the doctor. “She’s got blood, her wrists in a cast... so, why can’t I take her home today?”

“You have to understand Mr Chadwick; your wife has been suffering from these nose bleeds persistently - for months.”

“I know that, but you fixed it, right; with the transfusions?”

“We replaced her _red blood cells_ with the transfusions, we also replaced clotting factors, plasma and platelets… But we cannot replace her white blood cells. White blood cells are what protect a person from infection.

White blood cells are the body’s soldiers. They protect against invasion, from things that make us ill… viruses, bacteria, fungi etcetera. The scrapes may seem like a small thing, but they are avenues for infection. Infection she hasn’t got the resources to fight.

Right now, Michele’s body can’t produce white blood cells fast enough to replace what she loses from the chronic bleeding. Her blood films are full of immature granulocytes -White blood cells that aren’t mature enough to do their job properly, they are being pushed into service too soon, before they’re mature, like child soldiers, if you will.

We usually see this in leukaemia patients. But in your wife’s case, her bone marrow is morphologically healthy, it just can’t keep up with the demand for supply, because of the bleeding.”

Phillip looked down at his wife, then away.

“So, give her some. White blood cells. New soldiers, whatever! Here,” he held out his arm, “take mine! I’m healthy.”

“Mr Chadwick you don’t understand… we can’t… I’m sorry.”

“Why not?! You fix people with cancer, leukaemia, why the Hell can’t you fix her!”

“Your wife’s problem is unique, her immune system isn’t faulty or broken, just over taxed, quite literally drained… due to the blood loss… If I was a religious man I’d liken what she’s suffering to stigmata…”

“Stigm…? They’re **_nose bleeds_**!” He flared. “There’re no holes in her hands, for Pete’s sake! Instead of blaming …mysticism or something, how about you do your flaming job! Quit making excuses! Seriously, how hard can it be!” The doctor looked startled at his outburst and took a step back.

“Sir I didn’t say it was…”

A small cool hand wrapped around his wrist and tugged once, “Phil… stop it! Yelling won’t help.” Michele chided weakly from the bed.

She was awake!

He looked down into his wife’s wide green eyes with relief, plunged into and drank down that clear green, the flecks of gold, encompassed in blue. Looking in her eyes he felt like a man lost in the desert, finding water.

“Hey,” he whispered breathlessly, “how’re you feeling?”

She gave him a wonky, rueful smile, “like a car hit me,” she answered.

He choked a harsh laugh, one that was part sob. “One did!”

“Yeah… Sorry…” her hand slid up his arm as she struggled to sit up. She noticed her wrist, looked confused, then suddenly very upset.

“Where’s my phone?” She asked, “Phil I need it, right now! Where’s my phone?!” Her voice got higher, louder.  
Then she shivered. “How _long_ have I been here?” She demanded looking almost panicked.

 ** _“I need my phone, Phil! Where is it!?”_** She was really working herself up.

“You don’t _need_ your phone, come on, Michele! You _need_ to rest.” He soothed, trapping her hands in his, to stop her trying to remove the needles from her arm, stop her from climbing out of the bed. “What were you thinking?” He chided. “Paula said you ran out into the road… she said _you didn’t even look!”_

“Phil please! I need my phone; I need to call…to make sure he knows…”

“The _car_ smashed your bloody phone Michele! Your phone isn’t important! That car could have killed _you_! The kids are fine, you don’t need to worry. You don’t need your phone.”

Michele shook her head furiously, tears brimming, her hands curled into his shirt, “I need my phone… Phil. You don’t understand, I need … I have to tell him…” she stopped and looked frustrated, he could feel her shaking. She looked at him beseechingly, frozen, like someone who wanted to explain but just couldn’t.

He knew that look; it was the one she got lately.

Like they were from two different worlds, and she couldn’t get him to understand. It was so like the expression Johnny got on his face when he was locked inside himself because of the autism.

While Michele had been getting upset, a nurse arrived.

She slid a needle into Michele’s IV line.

A moment later Michele’s eyes rolled back, and she went limp, the nurse lowered her back onto the pillows.

Phillip opened his mouth.

Angry.

Suddenly realising the nurse had knocked her out with an injection.

He wanted to protest, ask why the heck she’d done that, when the doctor stepped between him and the nurse.

“Mr Chadwick, can I talk to you in the hallway a moment, please.”

Short circuited, he got to his feet and followed the doctor out, looked back over his shoulder at his wife as he walked through the door.

“Mr Chadwick, when your wife was admitted she was bleeding from her nose, eyes and ears.”

Phil stopped dead at that. _Shit!_ That was like something out of a horror movie. Was that why the doctor had been going on about stigmata? Had her _brain_ been bleeding?

“…She was agitated and emotional, I’d even go as far as to say she was irrational. She kept repeating that she needed to stop something, to save ‘him.’ She tried to leave several times. Coupled with the bleeding from her nose, eyes and ears, this behaviour led us to believe that she might have some form of brain trauma.

The scans and other tests say otherwise. As far as we can tell, your wife does not have a brain injury, I can assure you we wouldn’t be sedating her otherwise.”

Yeah… concussions… you weren’t supposed to let them sleep, right?

He scrubbed at his lips with his knuckles and wondered dumbly if this doctor, in his lab-coat and tie was younger than him… how could this guy possibly know enough to fix Michele… didn’t they have a senior doctor somewhere…?

“Mr Chadwick does your wife have a history of mental health issues?”

Phillip gawped at him.

“... Depression, panic attacks? A family history of schizophrenia or bipolar disorder, perhaps? Has your wife ever attempted or spoken of wanting to commit suicide?”

“No! No! Nothing like that.

What the Hell are you saying? …that she’s …. No! Michele’s not… are you crazy? She’s not nuts. And… she just wouldn’t … she’d tell me if she felt… or… Just... No! Okay?!

Look, she’s just worried, our son… he’s autistic... she’s his whole world, she’s just worried he’ll wig out when she’s not there to pick him up from school.”

Except that didn’t really make sense, it wasn’t like Johnny had a phone… she couldn’t have wanted to call Johnny. Maybe she wanted to call the school? But saying she wanted to ‘save him?’ From what?

“She’s just a Mum, a good Mum, okay… the rest of it, was… I don’t know, an accident. Maybe she was dizzy… just didn’t look before crossing the road...Just …. stop the damn nose bleeds, and stop implying she’s nuts!

You’re the one going on about stigmata…”

“We _are_ trying to stop the bleeding, Mr Chadwick, I can assure you of that.

That’s why we want to keep her here, so we can monitor her and keep her on intravenous antimicrobials, clotting factors, and all the other things she needs. To limit the chances of infection and more bleeding.

Your wife is extremely immuno-compromised right now, the best place for her right now _is_ with us. In the mean time maybe, you can reassure her that your son is okay, that phone call…? It would help if we didn’t have to keep sedating her.”

“I’ll go get him from school, bring him in.” He offered in a rush. Michele never really relaxed when Johnny was out of her sight.

“We don’t usually allow children to visit immune-compromised patients. Children spread germs Mr Chadwick, they don’t mean to, but it’s a fact of life. Besides, if he’s autistic, he may become distressed upon seeing her current state. Just the phone call Mr Chadwick.”

Phillip frowned, feeling like he’d been sideswiped. If Michele had been here, she’d have made the doctor see, with a smile and a few subtle words, she’d have made it clear that she knew best and wasn’t going to be dictated to. She’d have made a subtle jibe about patient rights or something, outlined what they’d do to make sure everyone got what they needed, and they’d roll out the red carpet for Johnny.  
Instead here he was, standing in the hallway looking at the doctors retreating back with his mouth half open, he probably had that look on his face too, the one Michele teasingly called his ‘stunned mullet look.’

Phillip shut his mouth and rubbed the back of his neck, turned back to make his way to his wife’s bedside, wondering how long it would be before she woke again.

One positive thing at least, with her phone getting smashed he could finally buy her that new iPhone he’d been trying to convince her she needed, for months now.  
He’d order one from Apple before she woke up, that way he could tell her he was on top of it, that it’d arrive in a few days, it’d cheer her up when she woke.  
Until then, a few days without her phone might do her some good, force her to get more rest.

Paula was going to pick up Johnny, she had Chris, so that would calm Johnny down over the change, and Paula was practically family. He’d called the school, so Mrs Demi could tell him ahead of time. Hopefully he wouldn’t have a full-on screaming melt down. They’d be back at Paula’s place within the hour and Michele and Johnny could have their phone call.

…ooo0ooo…

“…And yet, due to my cunning, here you sit, a virtual slave to my will.” Crowley gloated down at his chained blonde prisoner. He’d been ranting for a few minutes, had come here to make himself feel better. 

But was beginning to wonder if maybe, injecting soiled prophet blood into his veins hadn’t been a good idea….

  
He felt on edge and frustrated, couldn’t work out if he just needed _m o r e,_ or if the human feelings were curdling inside of him. Making him feel this, this, disgusting way.

  
He was beginning to see that talking at **_him_ ,** wasn’t helping.  
The smug bastard just sat there, not giving him any of the satisfaction he’d been craving.

But he needed to follow through now.  
Save face.  
Or it would look like he was backing down.

  
Chained in his chair, his captive began rubbing at his chin as if considering Crowley’s words.

Without noticing, Crowley did likewise.

“I mean the hubris – you and your pseudo son? I mean, it's delusional!” Crowley scoffed.

His captive cleared his throat, a beat later Crowley did the same, told himself he was taunting him. “Despite your epic collapse, you persist in the fantasy that you will best me.” Smiling in derisive delight the other flapped his lips sarcastically and Crowley followed suit, still unaware. 

“Your bluster is no match for my masterful strategies.” Heedless Crowley continued the lecture, frustratedly trying to drag some form of enjoyment out of the interaction.

The blonde poked out his tongue.

Crowley copied him.

“And in the end, you have to concede that I have….“ his captive began flapping his elbows, like he was doing the chicken dance.

Crowley copied him like a child playing follow the leader.  
  
Finally he realised what was happening.  
He wouldn’t copy that!

  
It was childish, puerile.  
Why had he done such a thing?!

“What's going on?” He demanded, startled and worried by his un-self-initiated actions.

His captive began laughing and stood.

“ _Master strategist_.” He was ridiculed in a parody of his own accent.

Crowley felt a flash of horror.

Something was _very_ wrong, he could feel it, he gazed at the hands of his meat suit in horror.

“More like Kermit the Frog.”

His captive began to hop on one foot.

Fighting it and rebelling internally, powerless to do anything but follow suit, Crowley copied.

Grinning broadly the new puppet master stopped hopping, but kept the demon jumping, with just the twitch of one finger.  
There was absolutely nothing Crowley could do but comply.

“Oh, my little Muppet!” His greatest nightmare rejoiced. “Crowley, what _will_ I do without you?” the former King of Hell’s eyes widened in terror.

….

Unwillingly Crowley unchained his erstwhile captive, then stood where he was put, externally impassive.  
Internally his mind scurried furiously, trying to work out how this balls up had happened.  
How to survive.

Adapt or die!

In all his long years it wasn’t the first time Crowley had had the tables turned on him, he’d been here before, multiple times.

He could do it again, he told himself.

True, it wouldn’t be pleasant, but he could survive.

It was just a bump in the road.

The trick was to act as if you had planned it all along, to make yourself seem more useful alive than dead. To shepherd your strength and mark your openings.

“Ooh! Dad, that feels awesome.” Crowley’s captive turned captor… soon to become tormentor, crowed and stretched theatrically.

“Oh! Muscle cramps. Do you know a good Pilates class?” The nightmare wrapped in a blonde meat-suit questioned smiling coyly.

Crowley chuckled ingratiatingly.

“So, to be clear, I accept that you are now in charge. I-I like this new arrangement better.” He smiled hopefully. “You're more the big picture guy. I'm the day-to-day minutiae guy.”

He looked into the blue eyes of his new old master and suddenly a memory came crashing in.

_“Your end is coming Crowley. You have choices to make. Soon your sins will find you out. A time is coming when all your plans will fall to nothing; when you find yourself hiding with the rats. No matter how you play it YOU can't win the game you have begun, and the wages of sin are death."_

Sam’s damned pet prophet or the thing that drove her knew this was going to happen!

_“the wages of sin are death."_

Who was he kidding? There was only one way that this was ending!

_“the wages of sin are death."_

Crowley turned to run.

But he wasn’t quick enough, he felt the unimaginable power he’d tried to chain, pick him up and slam him into the door. Knock it off its hinges.

He scrambled to his feet, only to be slammed through a second door and into the presence of his minions.

Of course, he would be debased and humiliated first.

“8 ball, corner pocket.” Crowley’s tormentor cried, hands on hips, voice all twisted childlike venom and good cheer; the kind of child that liked to pull wings off flies and smash things for fun.

Crowley was picked up and slammed against a pillar, hard enough to snap several bones and puncture a lung with a fragment of shattered rib.

“Well, I could do this all day, but since I'm King, et cetera, et cetera. I'll wrap it up.” His voice went from playful to deadly, like dropping a mask.

Crowley watched as his encroaching death picked up an angel blade that was just lying on the floor.

Raising his hands, he levitated Crowley

.

There was a bright flare of light. -Because _of course_ this was a moment of theatre for the masses. -

Crowley narrowed his eyes and winced at the show of power, the hated backlit silhouette of wings.

The whining sycophants would become backstabbing gossips soon enough. They’d all talk about his fall, his death and they’d laugh, like it was a great joke.

They’d all suck up to the new king… until the bastard killed _them_.

Crowley would laugh at the stupidity of demons, if he wasn’t so busy trying not to whimper like a coward. All he had left was his dignity and he’d be damned – more damned, if he didn’t die well.

He was lowered to his feet and forced, shaking fighting step, by shaking fighting step to approach his death, in front of every demon that had grovelled before him.  
Not a single one objected.  
He saw some openly gloating from the corner of his wide watering eyes.

Finally, the angel blade rested against his chest, pressing into the splintered shards of his shattered collarbone.

The blade raised, forcing him to lift his head and look into those eyes.

“Well, you had to know this was inevitable.” The once and returned ruler of Hell crooned, examining the Crowley minutely, all bated breath and wetted lips, like a lover.

It was almost like a caress when the blade sunk into his face and scored with agonising slowness down his cheek. The cut carved a portion of who he was away, burned it to agonising cinders.

The blade traveled to his nose

“This is gonna hurt.” He was informed, as his nostril was slashed open.

Allowed to raise his hand to his face and cradle the pain for a moment, before a fist slammed into him, sending him flying across the room.

It seemed to Crowley that the punch knocked something loose, his mind flooded with the paths the Prophet’s passenger had showed him.  
He died and died and died again, this moment was the end…. Except it wasn’t. It didn’t have to be, there was one golden thread of possibility.

He rolled his eyes sideways.

_“when you find yourself hiding with the rats.”_

There it was. Sitting there waiting for him. Beady eyes staring straight at him.

_“Hiding with the rats.”_

_“I’m not willing that any may perish, even you.”_

The memory of the words was a whispered caress.

He took the hand, the offer he hadn’t understood.

Let go and let himself slide away. Find a new home in the lowest place imaginable.

Watched as death stalked forward with the angel blade and plunged it into the unbeating, already dead heart of the moderately successful literary agent out of New York.

…ooo0ooo…

In a hospital half a world away, Phillip Chadwick saw his wife’s body shudder, her breathing stopped, for a moment her eyes flashed open.

He swore he saw golden _light_ flare and spark inside her green eyes, before her eyelids fluttered closed again.

In horrified incomprehension Michele’s husband watched his wife’s precious blood poured out, again.

Alarms started blaring, the room filled with doctors and nurses and he was pushed away from the bed.


	97. Bitter Awakenings

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 97: Bitter awakenings**

Sam jolts internally, Hand reaching for the gun under his pillow, even through the disorientation.  
It’s dark with only a sliver of light from the hallway filtering into his room.

There is something, someone, sitting on the end of his bed. Whoever or what ever it is, the silhouette doesn’t match Dean.

He raises his gun in one smooth motion and sits up, the figure flinches back as he fumbles for the bedside lamp and turns it on.

Part of him is expecting something from a nightmare.

Instead, the light reveals Michele. Face shiny wet with tear tracks, staring at him with mournful green eyes like her heart’s breaking.

She wipes at her eyes with the heels of her hands, as if she’s been caught and is trying to hide the evidence that she’s been crying.

Her lips form his name.

“Michele? How..?” He asks, letting his hand holding the gun fall bonelessly to the bed.

Michele frowns, head tilted, looks confused, her lips part and her mouth moves like she’s saying his name again.  
But there’s no sound.

She shifts towards him on the bed.

“How are you here?” He asks into the silence, vaguely aware that this shouldn’t be happening.

Again, she looks confused, scrunches up her freckled nose and blinks at him, shakes her head and touches her ear, then her lips.

She can’t hear him.

Her mouth moves again, but he can’t decipher her meaning.  
Instead, he becomes arrested by the soft curve of her mouth, bottom lip still shiny-wet from an errant tear.

The way her hair catches the golden lamplight… The frustrating way her bangs fall forwards to obscure her eyes…

_God!_ He wants to reach out and brush her hair away, so he can look into those eyes from close up.

Wants to cradle her face in the palms of his hands.  
Weave his fingers into that tussled mane and feel the softness of those loose curls between his fingers.

Wants to slide the pad of his thumb over the shiny plush give of her bottom lip, and see if those lips will part accommodatingly under his exploration…  
Wants to feel the warmth of her breath against his skin…

He swallows around a coil of nascent heat and flicks his gaze back to meet hers.

some of what he wants must show on his face, her eyes widen, and she tilts her chin up, an unconsciously provocative gesture, but the way she leans back slightly, doesn’t allow him to take it as an invitation.

Yeah, no, that’s not... Michele’s not… he feels embarrassment clog his throat. 

Her lips form his name again, but this time there’s more command in her face.

She looks faintly annoyed, like he’s messing about when she wants him on task, it’s a look he often levels on Dean.

Swiping her hair out of her face, she continues talking, a sense of urgency evident.

She’s unaware he can’t hear her voice, just like she can’t hear his.

She’s trying to tell him something, or asking him a series of questions.

Again, his focus slides away. Distracted by the contrast between her pale skin and those freckles, so much more noticeable than Dean’s.

Frowning he notices the shadow of a bruise across her temple, and a scrape by her hairline and realises the left hand she’s keeping tucked at her side, is enclosed in some sort of brace.

That she appears hurt again, irritates him deeply.  
He remembers her previous bruises and wonders if she may have lied to him, about her husband not hurting her.

Leaning forward, he’s intent on grabbing her wrist to examine it for himself, feeling a possessive need to assess the damage.

Instead of his hand closing around her arm, it stops short, hitting something hard, it sends an unexpected jolt of impact through his hand.

…ooo0ooo...

There’s a loud thump and Sam jerks awake.

He leavers himself off the table realising he’s fallen asleep in the library, in the midst of research.

Trying to find a way to escape.

_“We're in a giant vault loaded down with occult books and lore._

_There's gotta be something somewhere in here – an item or a spell –_

_some hoodoo that can reverse the lockdown.”_ He’d suggested that over 24 hours ago.

Since then they’ve hit the books, hard.

Across the table Toni Bevell makes a contemptuous sound in the back of her throat, moving her foot so the handcuff around her ankle rattles against the wooden chair leg.

The weird mixed luminescence from the camping lantern in the middle of the table, and the bunkers red emergency lighting, makes reality seem like the dream- or a full force nightmare.

Dean lets out a loud hissing breath and glares at Toni, daring her to comment further.  
Dean mightn’t be one to hurt women, but Sam knows his brother would love an excuse to get some licks in on this one, after her kicking him in the balls, and the other things she’s done, to both of them.

Sam bends down and picks up the book he knocked to the floor. His hand must have collided with it and the resulting thump of it hitting the floor woke him.

Groggily he climbs to his feet and stretches out his spine.

“How long was I out?” He questions guiltily.

“Not even long enough to start drooling, Sam.” Dean mutters shortly, without looking up from the book he’s trolling through, (‘you’ve got nothing to feel guilty about, ignore her Sammy,’ is layered flatly under the comment.)

Dean turns another page.

Sam rubs at his bleary eyes, feeling off balance from the dream with Michele, then waking to find Toni Bevell only feet away.

 _  
I don’t wanna die locked in here with Toni fucking Bevell!_ He tells himself.

Opening the book in his hands at random and begins reading.

It’s one of the more fringe magical texts. Gypsies and the lore of the Romani people.

At another time it would have been interesting reading for its own sake, the mixture of orthodox Catholicism and Eastern mysticism blending together with even older beliefs to form a hybrid magical and religious system, calling upon the power of Heaven, eastern deities and shamanism, under the appellation of Devla.

From the page, the word Abrogation catches his eye, it’s a law term, refers to repealing a law...

….

“Hey, I think I got something.” Sam informed the others.

“When the Romani people were forced to assimilate in Europe, the, uh, the Romani used a spell, the Abrogation ritual, as an act of rebellion against their persecutors.

…The Devla turns back complex mechanical processes, resets equipment, machinery.” He read out excitedly.

“What's it take?” Dean asked.

“Seems like pretty basic ingredients. Nothing we don't already have…” Sam answered scanning the procedure.

“…Oh….”

“What?” Toni demanded.

“The mechanisms ‘ _must be anointed with the blood of virgins.’”_

Dean looked at Toni, raising an eyebrow.

 _Yeah no_ , Sam thinks sarcastically.

Toni sits back and smirks at Dean. “Not even close.” She informs him.

“All right, well, then, I guess we keep lookin'.” Dean turns back to his book.

“…Or we fake it.” Sam ventures.

“Excuse me?” Toni asks.

“We fake it.” He repeats again “…I mean, I've read half a dozen purification rituals in the last hour. If we used one of those on – on our blood...”

“Then what? Re-virginize it?” Dean smiles.

“Maybe...”

Toni’s lips curl up into a grudging smile. “So, we purify the blood, then do the spell? Two-step, hybrid magic.”

“Bet _you_ wouldn’ta thought of that.” Dean jibes at Toni with a smug taunting look.

“… Probably not.” She admits like there’s something sour in her mouth. Sam feels Toni looking at him again, like she’s reassessing his worth, before she shrugs minutely. “Which purification ritual shall we use then?” She asks.

**……**

“Sam, you doing okay?”

Sam turned from collecting supplies for the purification and Abrogation rituals with a huff.

“Uh yeah, Dean… I mean, considering they brainwashed Mom, and we’re locked in here waiting to suffocate, and uhh... Ketch is out there doing who knows what.” The muscles along Sam’s jaw jump. “Yeah I’m good.” He answered snarkily.

Dean let out a slow breath, yeah, attempting the sharing and caring thing, this is what he gets, doesn’t know why he bothers.

He sets his shoulders, rubs the back of his neck, “Okay, I’m just gonna say it before we’re back with her Ladyship, we screwed up Sam. Bet that Skype call…”

Sam jerks like he’s touched a live wire, glaring at Dean, bottom lip poking out like it used to when he was a kid, then his shoulders slump. “God! I hope Michele doesn’t know about this, Dean.  
You recon the men of letters know about her?  
T-Toni sure didn’t hold back on threatening Jody and Claire, maybe…”

“I dunno Sam, if they’ve been listening in they gotta know…” _what Mitch means to you,_ Dean finishes silently in his own head, there is the hope that the British Men of Letters know _about_ Mitch, but not who, or where she is.

“Claire and Jody are American hunters Sammy. Seems they’re mainly focused on clearing the decks of us sentimental, flannel wearing, whiskey swilling plebs an’ replacin’ us with pompous assholes like Ketch.”

Ketch has done a bang-up job of locking them in here like rats in a trap, no phone, no internet… Soon no food, water or air. Either angel radio is blocked, or Cas is ignoring their prayers, thinking they are just trying to lure him, so they can grab Kelly and suck the grace out of her freaky kid.  
Dean prefers to think it’s just that angel radio sucks, after all Cas couldn’t hear or find them in West Guantanamo either.

“Not gonna happen.” Sam huffed looking decisive, arms full of bottles and jars, “com’on Dean, can’t leave Toni alone too long.”

“Yeah, lets go kick it in the ass.”

……

“Fármichi, fármichi, mashuna parra, mashuna parra.” Toni chants the ending to the Abrogation ritual as she sprinkles in a handful of crushed Clamshell.

A deep rumbling like an earthquake and everything starts to shake. Electricity crackles, everything electrical makes a high pitched laboured humming, the lights flicker back to normal, from the emergency red. Pulsing on and off with the fluctuating sounds of mechanical labour.

“It's working. It's working!” Sam rejoices and shoots Dean a smile.

Then the lights go dead and everything stops, the bunkers lighting flickers back to red again.

“No. No.” Toni gasps in despair, cuffed hands clenched.

“What happened?”

“Ketch!” She spat. “He knew we'd...” She lets out a sharp exhale. “He must've put some kind of mystical dampener on the bunker's lockdown.” Her shoulders slump.  
“Magic won't work.” She informs them quietly in defeat.

Both Winchester bothers bury their heads in their hands. 

Time is running out.

…ooo0ooo…

The past two days have been an agony.

When Michele awoke, Phillip was still sitting beside her hospital bed looking drawn and grey.  
He informed her tonelessly of what the doctor had asked him and implied.

She’d been woozy with the drugs, stunned by the visions and the strange distorted dream, completely at a loss.

What could she say?

_No, it wasn’t an attempt at suicide, I just panicked because I had a vision of the future._  
I rushed across the road and got hit by a car, by accident, because I was so focused on getting the King of Hell’s business card out of the ashtray of the car.  
I just wanted to save my friends, the characters out of the Supernatural books you got me reading.

 _You know those guys I talk with, my fanfiction friends? Yeah, they’re actually Sam and Dean Winchester and they hunt monsters, vampires, werewolves, sirens and ghouls, that sort of thing._  
An evil British organisation has locked them in an underground bunker and they’re suffocating as we speak.  
Where? Ummm I never asked, and they never told me, it’s a top secret lair … besides, you know me and directions, it’s a problem.  
The King of Hell is the only person I can think of who knows where their bunker is. But I think he might be dead now.  
He’s a blood junkie, shot up with some of my blood that he stole, somehow that let the monster he had chained in the basement turn him into a puppet.  
But on a positive note if the King of Hell is dead, I can quit worrying about him abducting our son and gifting him to a pedophile. 

If she had said **_any_** of that, it would make the, yeah, I’m not nuts argument seem a bit weak.

Phil would have thought she was delusional, ill and in need of professional help. Then he and the doctors would have tried to make her better, tried to fix her for her own good.

She glared at her husband resentfully in that moment.  
Wanting to scream at him, “You don’t understand! Someone I care about is dying. And I can’t stop it! All I can do is sit and watch it happen.”

  
And then she realised…

Phillip knew **_exactly_** what that felt like.

  
He’d been watching her hadn’t he? Every nosebleed and hospital visit.

He was _just_ as helpless as she was.

What were Sam and Dean to her by comparison?

She was Phillip’s wife, his closest friend, the mother of his children, the person who he trusts most to have his back and face the world with him.

Stung by the regret of not having _seen,_ she reaches out to the man she loves, who loves her, and losses herself in bitter tears.


	98. Thinking about You

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 98: Thinking About You**

Phillip returned from carrying the last sleeping boy to his own bed and feeding the cat.

“Alone at last,” he rejoiced and shut their bedroom door, firmly.

Johnny, Chris and the cat had been plastered to her ever since she’d returned home that morning.

Michele jerked her eyes away from staring at the Skype app on her new phone, and tried to stop obsessing and worrying about Sam and Dean. Tried to stop imagining the worst.

Surely a good God wouldn’t let them die?!

How many times had they both died and come back from the dead? They would be fine, wouldn’t they?! Please God, I don’t know what to do, why did this happen?!

The slimey horrible question that nagged and scratched inside her head was, would they die?… and… if they did die would she be free of the curse that was slowly killing her? If the Winchesters ended, would their gospel end?

Repressing a whimper of guilt, Michele closed her eyes again, and tried to force herself to just exsist in the moment.

To watch her husband as he stripped off his clothes and dumped them on the floor.

To think of nothing else.

Of course, Phillip took her scrutiny as proof of his stunning sexual magnetism, and decided to turn the process into a weirdly corregraphed striptease.

Now, down to just his boxers and socks, he fluttered his eyelashes at her, coyly over his shoulder and waggled his boxer clad butt. “Bet you missed having all this manly goodness in bed with you.” He suggested smugly.

For a moment the gnawing helpless feeling left her gut, and she laughed.

Phil was such a class-clown!

He smiled back smugly, then crawled up the bed towards her and kissed her soundly.

As she tried to return and deepen the kiss, he scrambled away from her across the bed and climbing under the blankets, pulling them up round his neck like a maiden aunt frightened for her virtue.

“No!” He admonished teasingly, waving a finger, “doctor’s orders are, that you rest! None of that, Mrs Chadwick. I’ve been waiting three whole days to _continue watching 12 Monkeys_. Tonight Netflix and chill, means _just_ that!”

Then he made a lie of it all, by tugging her across the bed into his arms, settling her onto his naked chest.

He wriggled around until her cheek was resting above his heart with his nipple directly under her lips.

Then, he grabbed her hand and dragged it down to cup over his hipbone.

Michele couldn’t help smiling, Phil was such a brat at times, she knew exactly what he was doing, and he thought he was being _so_ sly.

The whole thing was a setup. If she flexed her fingers, they’d brush those warm curls between his legs (and when had he shed his boxers anyway?)

Her every breath brushed over that small nub of flesh below her lips.

Temptation.

The way he’d positioned her was a carefully choreographed setup, it screamed, “love me, touch me, taste me.”

Turning her head she rested her chin on his chest and looked up at her husband’s carefully impassive face.

His eyes were closed as if he was considering sleeping, but she could feel him, just waiting.

“Because you know that the best way to get me to say Yes, is to tell me No.” She suggested with a raised brow. Sat up a bit and ran her hand over his chest.

The corners of his mouth pulled in a tiny bit, and his bottom lip bowed in a minute pout.

“Maybe…” he admitted, voice shaded towards little boy, and those thick inky lashes he’d bestowed on one daughter and both sons fluttered open to look up at her in the lamp light, hazel eyes wolfish.

Reaching out a hand she ran a finger along his cheek bone and watched those lashes flutter closed again and the way he lifted his chin and pressed into her touch, just ever so slightly.

Such a hedonist, she thought fondly, always wanting to be petted like some giant cat. She’d always loved the way he gloried in her touch like this. She ran her fingers over the the lines on his brow and smile lines beside his eyes, time was just beginning to carve them into permenant marks after all these years.

Those wrinkles beside his eyes were the marks of a good man, one with a good heart and a slightly over-sexed sense of humor, she thought.

…Dean had those lines too. 

And suddenly, just like that, she was crying again, and Phillip was holding her tight telling her over and over, that it was going to be all right, that they were going to survive this. Which only made her cry harder.

…oooOooo…

Sam watched his brother unroll the blueprint and slap it down onto the table.

“Okay, we’ve... exhausted brains, so I say we try brawn.”

“How?” Sam asked, resolutely trying to gather the internal resources and follow his brother’s lead.

“Walls.” Dean answered implacably ignoring the small groan from Toni Bevell’s direction. “Now the garage, the Crow's Nest, these, are all reinforced steel walls, right?”

Sam frowned and nodded.

“But right here,” Dean tapped the blue prints, “that's nothing but concrete...And right there,” he rested one blunt finger on a circle on the blueprint, “that's an old sewer pipe, goes straight up to the surface...to the override.”

Sam raised a brow in surprise, “So wait a second. We're just gonna...”

“Straight Shawshank this bitch.” Dean crowed confidently.

…..

As he followed Dean down the stairs as he carries the picks over his shoulder, Sam began to feel the first flickers of doubt, just walking down the stairs seemed to take far more effort than it should.

Vaguely he remembered one of Michele’s lectures about blood, oxygen and exercise, he was pretty sure this feeling was what she’d been talking about, when your muscles just weren’t getting enough oxygen.

Without realising he was doing it Sam found himself humming.

Dean stopped, looked back over his shoulder and shook his head.

“That’s one of Mitch’s songs. Guess it’s appropriate. _‘_  
When I run out of air to breathe  
_It's your ghost I see,  
__I'll be thinking about you.’_ ”

Sam caught back a breath. Dean was right, it was.  
The one she’d been dancing round the kitchen, singing into a spatula to that time.  
He’d found the album after and Dean caught him listening to it. Surprisingly, Dean hadn’t hated it. He’d even heard Dean playing a few of the songs, “Wolves,” especially, on days when he was feeling low.

Sam sort of hated that song.

The song he’d been humming was called “Skin.” Dean was right, there was a line about running out of air to breath… there were lots of lines in the song…

_We bleed ourselves in vain,  
_ _How tragic is this game?_

_I reached out for your hand,  
_ _When the walls were caving in…_

_…'Cause it was almost love…_

Sam shook his head, annoyed with himself. Hitting a concrete wall with a pick was _exactly_ what he needed right now.

…..

After a trip back to the lab for goggles, Sam and Dean attacked the concrete wall from each side, trading alternate strikes at the concrete wall.

Sparks and chips of concrete flew in all directions.

Each strike sent a jarring pain into the muscles of Sam’s shoulder and chest. Sweat and concrete dust plastered his shirt to his skin, dripped into his eyes and ran down his face like tears, behind his antiquated safety googles.

After what felt like forever, they had barely made a dent in the concrete, and each successive strike got further apart and less efficient.

Finally, Sam let his pick fall from his hands, to the floor, panting and slid down the wall. Dean gave one last half hearted swing that didn’t even connect then joined him with a grunt.

“Oh, Yeah.” Dean groaned.

Both of them just panted like dogs for a moment.

Sam ran a hand through his disgusting hair and groaned.

“We earned a break.” Dean muttered.

“Yeah.” Sam closed his eyes and let his head fall back.

“We'll get there.” Dean extolled, reached out for the bottle by his side, realized it was empty and tossed it aside with a grunt of disgust.

Sam twisted around to look up at the wall they’d been hammering, caught Dean doing the same from the corner of his eye.

Gritted his teeth at how unimpressive the dent was that they’d managed thus far.

“No. No, no, we won't.” He sighed. “We're not gonna hit dirt for three days. Two if we're lucky.” Sam chewed his lip.  
“I know you feel it – the air, it's thin.” He inhaled deeply through this nose, to get his point across. “…And it's getting thinner...  
How did this happen?” He asked mournfully, sucking another breath.

__

_God he wished he’d answered that Skype call!_

“What part?” Dean asked quietly, shoulders slumped, avoiding his eyes.

“All of it.” Because not answering that Skype call wasn’t the only thing that had led them here. Working with the British Men of Letters, trusting them had led them here.

Dean shook his head dejectedly. “Yeah…” He sighed, “You know, it wasn't long ago, I thought we had it made.  
We saved the world.  
We got Cas back.  
We had _Mom_ back…” Dean glanced at his face then looked away swiftly. “I mean, it wasn't perfect, but still... we had 'em…  
And now...”

“Now they're all gone.” From the corner of his eye he watched Dean shake his head and swallow painfully.

“And Mom, what they did to her...” Sam shook his head in horror, remembering the blank look on his mother’s face, huffed in self deprecation, “I just fell for their company line.” He swallowed hard.  
“Man, I...” He sucked another breath, exhaled it painfully.  
“I saw what they were doing, and I – and I _thought_ ,  
Hunters o-on that scale, working together... how much good we can do.” _God! He’d been so wrong, so damn stupid, he should have listened to Michele about the werewolf vaccine. Always, should have listened, why hadn’t he listened._

“And once I was in, I... I just followed. 'Cause it was easy-Easier.”

Dean glanced at him. “Easier than what?” He asked.

An epiphany struck him then. How much he hated making those decisions, how badly he wanted to hand it over to someone, anyone else. Was that what Michele had meant by telling him he’d always been the kid in the equation.

“Easier than leading.” He admitted. 

Dean nodded in understanding and dropped his head. After Dad died… even before, Dean had never had the luxury of someone else being responsible.

Knowing that filled Sam with shame. He picked up a piece of concrete to distract himself, stared at it and tossed it aside. Leaned back against the wall.

“Is this how you pictured it?” He asked finally. “The end?”

Dean lifted his chin and stared away. “Ohh, you know it's not!  
…I always thought we'd go out like... Butch and Sundance style.”

Sam shook his head and coughed a laugh. Dean and his stupid cowboy and action movies.

“Yeah.  
Blaze of glory.”

“Blaze of glory.” Dean agreed.

From the corner of his eye Sam saw his brother look aside then smile nostalgically.

Then a small shiver ran through him. “Sonofabitch.” Dean breathed and nodded to himself. “Hmm.” He hummed in satisfaction.

“What?”

“I know how we’re gonna get outta here. And I’m such a frickin’ idiot for not thinkin’ of it before.”

“What?!”

Dean scrambled to his feet. “Home improvement Sammy, DIY… What we need is a major dose of destructive overkill! When-the- _fucking_ -walls-came-down!”

Sam scrambled to his feet to follow after his brother… “Seriously Dean, slow down. I’m not getting you man.”

Dean swung around to face him almost giddily, grinning like a maniac. “Mitch! That day, the day we told her about being a soiled prophet… she was talkin’ about her husband wantin’ to take out a wall… and she said…”

“…if her husband had a grenade launcher like we do, she’d be afraid to leave him unsupervised...” Sam finished in an incredulous rush, feeling an insane smile spill across his face in reply to his brother’s.


	99. When the walls came down

** The Thing You  ** **Hate**

**Chapter 99: When the Walls Came Down**

Castiel looked across his truck at the woman seated in the passenger seat and smiled bittersweet to himself.

Kelly Kline looked worlds different from the woman he’d found chained in Dagon’s basement, the one that had grabbed his hand in the park and stood by his side against Dagon.

Her clothes were new, her hair clean and shiny, but most telling of all was her smile.

Despite knowing her child’s birth would bring about her death, Kelly was relaxed, happy, filled with a brimming purpose and hope.

In the early afternoon light, which slanted through the old fords windows Kelly was luminous, brimming with life.

Kelly looked up from examining the contents of the plain plastic shopping bag in her lap and caught his smile.

“What?” She asked self consciously, tucking her straight dark-blonde hair behind one ear, and raising a neat brow.

The angel took a flustered breath, nonplused over how to answer her. “I have read and heard the description of a pregnant woman glowing, I did not understand the imagery, believed it to be a tactful way of describing increased blood flow and perspiration. But… I understand now. You do, as they say, glow, not with light but …you are radiant...” Castiel faded off uncertainly, looking ahead at the road in feigned concentration.

Kelly smiled and patted his knee- that was another surprising thing about becoming Kelly’s protector, all these little touches. Very different from his interactions with Sam and Dean.

“I’m going to take that as a complement Castiel. In your way, you are very sweet.” She smiled across at him, head tilted slightly.

“I did collect honey for a time, but that was many years ago.”

Kelly’s pale green eyes narrowed slightly; her glossed lips quirked up like he’d said something amusing. “-Oh you mean…” he cleared his throat awkwardly, chagrined that he’d failed to read the subtleties of human communications, once more.

“Yes Cas,” Kelly murmured and patted his knee lightly.

“….. I have not had occasion to spend much time with women… especially pregnant women. I am uncertain if the effect is due to the child…”

“Jack.” Kelly stated firmly, “my son’s name is Jack.”

“Oh…” Castiel found himself a little surprised by Kelly’s choice. It was not what he expected… and yet, since the day in the park - since he chose this mission to protect Kelly and her child, Castiel had begun to believe that his Father might still care for his creations. Despite the way he had left and chose to remain hidden from them.  
That moment when the child’s power filled him… he almost felt his Father’s presence.

“It is my stepfather’s name. A family name.” Kelly answered defiantly. “He’s the best man I know. I know it isn’t grand … or… But, it’s a good name, the name of a _boy_ , someone with the choice of who he will become when he grows up. Someone who can choose to be good.”

“Kelly, do you…? Jack, the name, it means ‘God is Gracious.’” Castiel was uncertain if Kelly had known the meaning of the name before he told her, but from the way her smile widened, it was apparent, her mind would not be changed by the knowledge.

“Kelly, I believe...the name, Jack… It is perfect.” He assured her, swallowing back sadness at the thought of this woman’s death.  
“I will tell your son how you chose his name and why.  
What it means.  
He will carry it proudly.” He vowed.

…ooo0ooo…

“I guess I better go get Toni and explain what we are gonna do.” Sam said.

“Yeah I’ll go...” Dean pointed in the direction of the garage and his brother nodded.

Dean could feel how the air was thinning but made his way to the garage with a measure of lightness.

At least this felt like doing something, a plan. He didn’t know if Sam was aware of the risks.

Sure, he did, Sam was smart.

He hadn’t argued, though. Dean found himself wondering if Sam just wanted to indulge him this one last time. Give him that Blaze of Glory. An action movie moment, before their credits rolled. Or did Sam believe in this reckless get out of jail card?

Reaching the garage, Dean lifted the battery lantern higher, letting its light spill over the Impala, for what he fervently hoped was not the last time.

He looked lingeringly over his number one girl’s liquid ink and chrome lines. Then smoothed one hand over her cool, glossy paintwork.

“This has gotta work.” He muttered darkly and patted the Impala’s roof.

The thought of her, crushed under rubble or sitting there in the airless dark. Forever. -  
Never again, flying down asphalt where she belonged, or kicking up fallen leaves and road dust.

Engine stilled forever…

Dean grimaced and shook his head in denial.

Opened the trunk.

As he lifted the grenade launcher out and checked its ammo he thought briefly of Montauk.

Something yellow lay underneath where the grenade launcher had been and caught his eye.

It was a post-it note. The word ‘NO!’ scrawled across it.

Drawing a rough breath, the hunter picked it up and smoothed his thumb over the two letters and exclamation mark.

Mitch was good at saying no, somehow, she always had a way of making you realise, you didn’t want what you thought you did.

He swallowed roughly, grenade launcher in one hand, small yellow post-it in the other. Looked over his shoulder nervously.

“...Mitch, dunno if this time it’s meantta be a ‘Yes.’” He muttered, alone in the shadowed garage. “Dunno if you can hear me… or how your thing works. But... if you can… Just... wantedta say thanks, an’ sorry… Guess at least if this don’t work out… I’m hopin’ you’ll be free, an’ quit bleedin.’ That you’ll forget about us, live a good life, look after those kids of yours… Glad Sammy…” He stopped and cleared his throat, glanced at the word NO! again, hoped it wasn’t some sort of sign, and that he wasn’t about to get them all killed. Shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “Yeah, talkin to m’self. Stupid…” he muttered, crumpling the post-it in his hand and shoving it into his pants pocket.

Slammed the trunk.

...ooo0ooo…

“You're lunatics.” Toni hissed at Sam. “This is a _colossally stupid_ idea.” Her highness, Toni Bevell scolded, as if Sam were a kid, as if they weren’t all running out of air, out of less stupid options.

“Yep.” Dean agreed, grinning broadly as he strode into the room. “Big, beautiful...” He cocked the grenade launcher, “and dumb…"

  
"I've had this thing for soo long.”

Sam looked up at him and grinned, crossed his arms and tilted his head cockily in agreement, being a little shit without saying a word.

“Been waiting for the perfect moment to use it.” He smiled again and Sam met his eyes.

Yeah, Butch and Sundance in Bolivia.

“The explosion could kill us all.  
You could bring the whole bloody place crashing down!” Toni vented in horror.

Dean couldn’t help laughing at the woman’s panic, it was just gravy, her pompous English whining, music to his ears.

“Yeah.” He grinned wider.

“Yeah.” Sam agreed with a nod and a chuckle.

“You're _lunatics_!” Toni shrilled as Sam grabbed her arm and led her unwillingly up the stairs. “Action movie-loving, cheeseburger-eating, moronic _American_ lunatics!”

Sticks an’ stones lady, Dean thought as Sam ushered her out of the room and into the hallway behind.

He raised the grenade launcher. “Okay, beautiful.” He muttered sighting on the pathetic dent he and Sam had made, hammering at the wall.

“Yippee ki-yay, mother –“

Dean pulled the trigger. And the world exploded in a giant fire ball.

Slammed backwards. Showered with debris.

Dazed.

Pummelled all over.

Ears ringing.

Dean forced himself to stumble to his feet and down the stairs. The hole wasn’t huge but it _had_ reached the sewer pipe. Busted it open like a high caliber bullet, ripping through a tin can.

He clambered up inside the crater, kicking lumps of concrete and twisted metal out of his way best he could.

Poked his head up into the pipe and took a gasp of fetid but marginally fresher air.

Squeezed himself inside and began forcing his way up, worming his way into the twisted metal pipe.

Kicking and struggling.

At one point he caught his leg on something, he felt a spike of searing pain in his knee as he yanked himself forward again. Then he felt something shift. Felt a grinding rumble through the walls of the pipe.

Collapsing concrete and earth.

All the light from behind him cut off, left him in the close darkness.

A wave of panic swept through the Hunter.

Dean panted hoarsely and tears of panic leaked from his eyes.

What if he was trapped in here, like a rat in a bottle? What if the bunker had collapsed behind him and he’d left Sammy to die?

_“Don’t you dare sit there and cry. Want to live, want to save you brother. **Then do your damn job!** ” _An echo of John Winchester’s voice whipped him, pushing him on.

….

Crouched in the hallway next to Toni Bevell, with his hands over his ears, Sam heard the explosion. Felt it, like a blow to the chest, when the explosion devoured most of the little oxygen left in the Bunker.

“Dean?”

“Dean!”

He got to his feet and staggered along the corridor to find his brother.

The room was empty.

There _was_ a hole in the wall, but it was only a couple of feet wide.

Sam approached it, torch in hand, to peer closer coughing and wheezing at the smoke and dust.

  
Then something above groaned and the wall above collapsed in on itself, blocking access.

Surely Dean hadn’t been in there… the collapse, he’d have been crushed.

Dean had to be in the bunker. Maybe he’d been hurt in the explosion. Was trying to patch himself up. Sam staggered away from the collapsed hole, vision greying with lack of oxygen, stumbling and choking, he forced himself on, he just had to find his brother if this was the end.

“Dean?!” He called into the darkened maze of the Bunker’s hallways.

…ooo0ooo…

Michele picked up her chiming phone and stared dumbly at the name on the display.

“Hello?” She asked fearfully, heart beating like a drum, too shattered by everything she’d witnessed in the past 24 hours to really hope.

“Hey…” Sam’s voice responded hesitantly in her ear.

“Sammm?  
Oh God! I thought… I thought you were dea-d.” Her voice broke pathetically as tears blurred her vision. “P-please tell me Dean’s okay, **_please_** …” she begged and burst into a series of hiccuping sobs.  
On the other end of the phone Sam drew a halting breath, her fear skyrocketed.

“Yeah,” he muttered, after a pause that felt like forever. “D-Dean’s still kicking, just skinned his knee up. But he’s… he’ll be fine. W-we’re both fine.”

“Sorry…” She murmured brokenly trying to get herself under control.

“Yeah ahhh, sorry for worrying you. I wanted to protect you from that…”

“Sorry for worrying me…” she repeated dumbly. “ _Worrying me_? You wanted to protect _me_ from that…?” And suddenly something snapped inside of her.

“Sam you want to apologise. How about you apologise for not picking up my fucking call… How about you apologise for the fact I have no idea where your bloody Bunker is. _I couldn’t even call the damn Kansas police and try and convince **them** to save you. _Apologise that I don’t know the name or contact details for a _single person_ who _could_ save you. Apologise because you prioritise your stupid, pointless, Neanderthal, screwed up, John Winchester idea of protecting the civilian, over listening. Over _me_ doing _my_ job! Protecting you with what I see!”

“Michele… it’s not your job too…”

“You know nothing Jon Snow.” She spat before he could argue further. “I _made it_ my job. _God_ made it my job. So, quit treating me like I’m a child.”

“I’m sorr-“

“Don’t be _Sorry_ Sam, change! If we _are_ actually friends, act like it! Trust me! Listen to me, stop thinking you know better and stop treating me like your Dad treated you all those years. Maybe I can’t shoot a gun or kill a monster. But let me do my job, _please Sam_.”

“Wow, I ...uh…” Sam huffed a mirthless chuckle against her ear, “you know you never gave me your address either…” he murmured dryly, trying to either defend himself or break the tension.

“That’s because my address is in the _phonebook_ , Sam… also cos I _know_ you cyber stalked me.”  
She huffed a weary breath. “Sam I’m _glad_ you and Dean are alive, so _very_ glad! – you have no idea.  
Sorry for freaking out and yelling at you.”

“You care… I uh, get that… but Michele, this is what happens, what we do… who we are… this life…” Sam sounded so reasonable, despite being obviously wrung-out and frustrated with her emotional outburst, it made her feel more guilty for losing it. “I don’t want to drag you into this, I’d do anything to stop you seeing...  
For your sake.  
But what we do _is_ dangerous and bloody, and you… you’re…”

“I’m a _Prophet_ Sam,” she argued, “and there’s demon blood in me too! - Has been since _before_ you were born. You- bless your heart Sam, you, don’t want to see that, that this is my fight as well.

_I know_ you wouldn’t be who you are if you didn’t do what you do, I’d never ask you to stop or not be who you are. I’m just asking, _begging_ , that you let me do and be what I’m _supposed_ to be too, okay?

Sam please, _let me do my job. Let me try to protect you, in the pathetic small way I can…_ Ever think that _maybe_ when Amara gave Dean a gift… Chuck gave you one to?” Michele blinked, unsure where her last words came from. “Ever stop to think that maybe I’m here to watch your back? Because God _cares_ , because he wants to keep you two brave, self sacrificing, Blaze of Glory, moronic, American lunatics alive?”

Sam snorted. “Heard that, did you?”

“Yeah, I did, and Dean can’t blame me for the hole in your wall, that was all him.

Where is he? I know whatever he did to his leg was pretty bad, _and_ in an old sewer pipe. Last thing he needs is Lockjaw or a dose of septicaemia. When was his last tetanus jab?”

Sam hummed in the back of his throat, seemingly amused by her usual mothering attempt. “Dean’s busy with Toni. And I don’t care what you say, that’s one part of our life you are having _Nothing_ to do with, understand? I, I hear you… and yeah, okay, next time I’ll pick up the phone. O-or call you back… But you have to understand Michele, The British Men of Letters they’re not like you, or even us. I didn’t see it until too late, but they’re bad, a type of bad you’ve never dealt with, and I don’t want you to.

They _killed_ Mick, they _brainwashed_ Mom… people like that… they find you and…"

"I just **_can’t_** , okay?!   
I’m _not_ going to apologise for that.” Sam informed her, voice stubborn and inflexible. “We’re both up to date on our shots, sorta have to be, don’t worry about that. Promise I’ll keep an eye on Deans leg. I-I’ve got to go now, phones dying.  
Mom turned up at Jody’s, we’re headed there now, just stopped for gas. I’ll talk with Jody, a-about giving you her contact details, GPS coordinates, or something… we’ll work it out… Hey, I-“  
The call failed mid-sentence.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam walked back around the side of the gas station. Dean was filling the Impala’s tank and Toni was back inside.

Dean looked up and nodded, pulled a face and grunted when he got closer. “So- lookin’ at your face, Cassandra ripped you a new one?”

“Dean d-don’t call her that. She’d only use it as ammo.” He muttered ruefully, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Dean just laughed.

Sam huffed and rolled his eyes in response.

“She says you can’t blame her for the hole in the wall. Wanted to know if all your shots are up to date, she’s worried you’re gonna get Tetanus from that knee. Didn’t tell her Lockjaw might be an improvement.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thankyou to those of you who are reading and to those who have commented.  
> Especially Indigo_Guardian_Phantom_Knight and ADUAN  
> I’ve been sick lately so knowing someone finds my fic worth reading cheered me up when I was feeling pretty down.  
> I remember when Dean got to use the Grenade launcher, I was soooo very happy!  
> If you’ve read my story TOB, I wrote that with both the grenade launcher and Die Hard references in it, way before the episode aired and it was a moment that felt like completed destiny for me, it just made me want to cheer. Just like when Sam used a hobbit reference of Frodo for Mick Davies. I bounced on the bed going Yes! Yes! Yes over that! And the hubby was looking at me like I was mildly insane but cute. Good times 😆


	100. Promise not to murder my cat

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 100: Promise not to murder my cat**

Crowley, demon of unspecified position, with relation to Hell, caught himself against the flank of the Japanese, tin-can, people-mover and took a breath as he surveyed the uninspiring dwelling before him.

That he’d come to _this_ irked him. He straightened his spine and made his way up the house’s front steps.

….

Hearing a knock at the front door, Michele put down the potato peeler she was wielding against the pile of root vegetables. Wiped her hands on a dish towel, lifted her toddler down to the floor from his stool beside her and headed to answer the door.

The toddler trailed after her.

Seeing the mother and child leave the kitchen, the cat on the dining room windowsill stood, stretched languorously, and decided to investigate the visitor also.

Trailed by her entourage, Michele opened the door.

….

“Ma cherie.” Crowley greeted the woman cockily, a smug smile positioned for best effect.

“Crowley… I thought you were dead.” The little woman gasped, face a picture of incredulous shock.

“Rumours of my death are somewhat exagger-“

Behind her something appeared that made him stumble back a step in shock, a visceral reaction in his weakened state. He would have done a pratfall onto his arse, but for the good Samaritan who stepped heedlessly outside her protective warding to catch him.

The woman tucked herself under his arm and led him down the front steps to a garden bench seat.

“Sit,” she commanded, “I’ll be right back.”

A minute later she returned with a glass in one hand and a blue and white plastic box under her arm.

“Drink,” the woman commanded placing the glass in his hands, “It’s Bourbon, not scotch, but it’s what we have…”

The demon looked down at the glass in his hands.

“Drink.” She commanded again, placing a hand underneath and lifted it to his lips like he was an invalid. Off guard, he swallowed a few mouthfuls compliantly, before coming to his senses.

“What the bleeding hell are you doing woman?” He demanded, unaccountably irritated by the way she had abandoned the safety of her warding and appeared to be… “Ow!” He flared in betrayal, trying to slap her hand away as she dabbed at the cut on his meat-suit’s cheek with a square of gauze soaked in some god-awful smelling disinfectant.

It stung.

“You’re hurt and you’re filthy, what do you think I’m doing? Stop being a baby and let me clean it.” She snapped.

Baffled by the unexpected solicitude, the demon sat under the woman’s ministrations sipping at his (not horrible) bourbon, until she reached up and began trying to undo his tie.

He grabbed her hands, “What _are_ you doing?” He grated suspiciously, somewhat distracted by the cast around her wrist “… why are you wearing that?”

“I’m trying to assess if I need to take you to a hospital.” She muttered and tried to attack his tie again.

He grabbed her cast encased wrist, stopping her hands. “As much as this little medical game of S&M thrills me to the core, I can assure you, your Florence Nightingale impersonation is unnecessary.”

“You all but fell down my front steps, you’re hurt, and filthy... I don’t even know _how_ you’re alive. I saw him _stab_ you in the chest with that angel blade…”

“Spying again Poppet? All a bit of slight of hand, as you can see. I’m very much - not dead. All the damage – except to the Armani, is unimportant.”

“Yeah, sure, because Crowley, King of Hell, usually knocks on doors then falls down peoples front steps.”

“I was surprised, that’s all.” He argued, ruffled. “I simply forgot you had one of _those_.” He waved at the feline now sitting on the top step, staring menacingly at him, and shuddered.

“Slinky?”

“Yes, the sodding cat!” He spat, “-merely an instinctive survival reaction.”

The little hobbit housewife gave him a surprised look and frowned, “so wait, demons are scared of cats?… like, like Minecraft creepers? Is that why witches are associated with th-”

“No! You little dingbat, I just spent three days hiding in a rat.”

“Oh…” The prophet frowned and blinked green eyes at him from behind the lenses of her glasses.

As if mentioning its name called it closer, the blasted feline stalked down the steps towards them, stiff legged, tail and body fluffed out to twice its size. It sniffed the air, then began yowling and growling at him.

Crowley tensed, curled his lip and narrowed his eyes in annoyance.

He’d never liked cats.

Beside him Sam’s pet looked back and forth between him and the cat, then shot to her feet, picked up the infernal moggy and threw a “I’ll be back,” over her shoulder as she disappeared inside the house, shutting the door.

Minutes ticked by before the door opened again.

“Okay, I think I’ve got rid of the warding in the lounge, kitchen and bathroom… Slinky’s locked in the hallway… so ummm. You can come in if you promise not to murder my cat, or whatever…”

He just stared as the hobbit skipped down her front steps again and proceeded to try and help him to his feet.

He shook her off, stood by himself, looked down at her in disgust. “ ** _What is wrong with you_**?!” He demanded angrily, “I’m a demon, _de-mon_. And you’re just… just going to let me in your house?!”

The woman pouted at him, lifting her chin and gave him that wide eyed look. “You’re hurt…”

“So?!”

“…so, I can’t just…”

“So, you slam the door in my Bloody face, you little idiot! You try to kill me… Or, or use it to your advantage…you don’t just…”

The woman sighed heavily, “You came here because you knew, or hoped, I’d do exactly what I’m doing Crowley. Now I’ve got stuff to do. When you’re finished sulking, having a tantrum, a crisis of conscience or what ever this is, come inside.”

She turned around and walked back into the house leaving the front door standing open. 

After a moments hesitation the demon followed her through the lounge and into the kitchen, stood watching her peel vegetables with his arms crossed.

“I don’t have a conscience,” he informed her sulkily and banged the empty bourbon glass onto the bench.

The woman peeked up at him from under lowered lashes.

“If you want...There’s some clean clothes that should fit and a towel, in the bathroom.” She offered gesturing to a doorway just beyond the kitchen.

….

When the ousted King of Hell emerged from the bathroom, clean and dressed in the black t-shirt, athletic pants and socks he’d found in the bathroom, the prophet was no longer in the kitchen.

He found her seated at the computer, typing away, the toddler on her lap was watching cartoon dogs on it’s iPad.

The child looked up from the iPad. “Gar ace awww.” It piped amicably, gazing up at him with curious hazel eyes.

The mother didn’t react, simply continued typing.

Stepping closer the demon began reading over her shoulder.

….

“I’m not a blood junkie!” Crowley flared insulted, “and if I am, it’s your fault! I was clean before you!”

At his outburst, the woman flinched in shock, turning her head to look at him with startled owlish eyes.

“ _That’s_ what you’re getting from this chapter?” She asked.

“That and Moose and Squirrel are once again in need of having their chestnuts hauled out of the fire. _Imagine my surprise_.” He muttered sarcastically, looking put-upon.

The demon fidgeted with his clothing and scowled.

“How fortuitous, that I bartered for that warding and formulated a work around, I had planned to use it to retrieve the demon tablet so we could use the information there in, pertaining to tracking of Princes of Hell and a certain AWOL Nephilim... But well!” The demon smirked self importantly.

“At least, now I know why you’re truckling to me. You’re going to beg me to save them.”

The woman scrunched up her freckled nose, “The demon tablet? You wanted me to translate it? No! And don’t you think I would have said something _before_ _now, they were suffocating Crowley_! I would have begged you days ago if I knew you were alive. Dean blew a hole in the wall with his grenade launcher, they’re…” She looked aside and one corner of her mouth twitched downward, “Fine.”

She didn’t look entirely convinced.

Saving the file, she turned and looked up at him. “Well, at least you’re looking a bit better,” she observed.

He grunted in reply, fingering the black polyester-cotton clothing scathingly. The last time he’d worn something similar, Lucifer had him chained in a kennel.

“Why then? what do _you_ want?” He demanded.

She tilted her head and looked puzzled by the question, then bit her lip, “Do not take revenge, my friends, but leave room for God's wrath, for it is written: "It is mine to avenge; I will repay," says the Lord. On the contrary: ‘If your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink. In doing this, you will heap burning coals on his head.’ Do not be overcome by evil but overcome evil with good. Romans 12: 19 to 21.” She finished the quote with an arch smile. “Will you be staying for dinner Crowley?”

“What exactly do you think is happening here Darling? I don’t eat! I’m a demon. My natural habitat is fire and brimstone … burning coals? bah!” He spat a bark of laughter into her face and was gratified by her flinch of fear. “Get it through your fluffy little head, you daft twat. I’m a monster, you can’t cure me with kindness!”

Lifting the child down off her lap slowly, she swallowed and met his eyes flinchingly, he could see the pulse jumping in her throat.

“What about with consecrated blood?” She asked quietly, sucking in a frightened, shaky breath. “You call me an idiot, but _I’m_ not the demon stealing blood from a prophet – a vessel of God and injecting it into his veins. You’re not a liar Crowley, admit it to yourself. On some level you stopped wanting to be King of Hell a long time ago. You want what’s offered _here_ , want to be saved. You crave love and forgiveness. You just don’t know how to get them.”

“ _What I want_ , Pet, is to find Castiel and that infernal Nephilim before the bastard that stole my throne. Because if that happens, it’s game over, for all of us!”


	101. Maternal Influences

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 101: Maternal Influences**

Michele was beginning to regret her thoughtless altruism, the Christian charity she had learned at her mother’s knee.  
Maybe, she would be rewarded in heaven like her mother told her, but right now, it was truer, that no good deed goes unpunished.  
Having Crowley in her house was shaping up to be an unenjoyable experience. A bit like she’d let a large vicious animal inside and was now at a loss how to get it out again without being attacked.

She’d watched helpless and uncomfortable as he’d roamed about, poking through everything in the rooms he could enter, ransacking her husband’s liquor cabinet and generally making himself at home. 

The demon was currently seated at the Family PC, intent on reading every file on the hard drive.

\- viciously criticising everything he read.

E v e r y t h i n g: the folder of bible studies she’d written before Chris was born, the last 10 years of Christmas Letters, the quasi research papers she’d written on Autism, the guide she’d begun writing on how to wrangle the New Zealand school system, if you had a child with special needs...

 _Even_ the gushy, embarrassing poetry she’d written Phil on their first anniversary.

To have someone troll through all that was bad enough, but to have it critiqued and commented upon in that smug condescending tone...

It was like… It was like being back in her parent’s house, listening to her father tell her every tiny way she was a failure, each and everything that was wrong with her. All the reasons she’d never be good enough…

It was a kind of non-contact torture.

“I’m curious Pet, are you an angel in the kitchen and a demon in the sack.” Crowley continued unabated, apparently thinking himself the height of wit.

Michele closed her eyes and prayed for patience.

“The most amusing thing is that you dote on _Moose_ , Winchester the younger is all talk and no trousers, Pet.  
Now Dean, he tried something _real_ to look out for you Darling. Nearly poisoned you too – of course, but what do you expect.”

Michele gritted her teeth. 

Crowley reopened the chapter of her fic she’d been working on before he interrupted. Began to read it from the beginning, Michele’s stomach lurched uncomfortably as the demon hummed in delight.

“Are you really going to keep pretending Moose sees you as _just_ a friend, Darling? That he doesn’t harbour dirty adulterous aspirations?” The demon sneered mockingly, tapping the computer screen with one manicured finger. “Wake up and smell the ejaculate Darling. ‘ _Wants to slide the pad of his thumb over the plush give of her bottom lip, see if those lips will part accommodatingly under his exploration…  
__Wants to feel the warmth of her breath against his skin…’_ ” he read out the words out mockingly. “His thumb isn’t the only thing he wants to push into that mouth of yours, Pet.” The demon chortled to himself.

“Stop it,” she muttered dully, curling in on herself as she held her sleeping son closer, “ _please,_ just stop it!”

“Wha’ ” The demon stared over his shoulder at her, looking confused by her outburst.

“I’m not an idiot, of course I know that _Sam’s a guy_. _Of course,_ I know he occasionally confuses friendship with something that feels like attraction. But that’s just the trauma he’s been through, I’m safe!  
I’m not stupid enough to think any of it is actually about me.” She muttered and turned her head away, eyes unaccountably brimming with tears.

The demon pushed back from the computer and sauntered over to her, looked down at her thoughtfully stroking at the stubble on his jaw.

“You’re not wrong Cupcake.  
Still I suspect you remind young Samantha of things and people he wants but can’t have - for a variety of interesting reasons.  
From his dead and much lamented first love, Jessica Moore.  
To the Mommy dearest he grew up longing for, and whom by all accounts was _never_ the saintly, sweet little homemaker either Winchester believed her to be. ~ Being brought back by Amara, primordial force of darkness and destruction _may_ account for _some_ of that, of course; Amara doesn’t understand humanity, probably left out a few of the key squishy bits.”

  
The demon shrugged carelessly. “But more importantly because you…” the demon leaned over and tapped her nose almost playfully, and chuckled when she jerked away.

“you, with your pretty green eyes, freckles, lack of self-esteem, self-sacrificing loyalty and tendency to baby him... You remind him of his big brother, Dean. All rather incestuous, if you ask me!”

Michele narrowed her eyes and glared at the demon as he stood, smiling down at her in condescension.

“Does being this awful to everyone you meet make you feel better, Crowley?” She asked quietly, voice colourless.

“You’re _so_ smart, you can turn people’s insecurities, pain and longing against them, it’s easy for you isn’t it? You know how to play people and you mock us all for our humanity and weakness.

But you’re not so far above it, you act cool and in control, but you’re not.  
I know why you drink Craig Scotch whiskey, Crowley – it’s because when you were a child, and your mother _just wanted you to go to sleep_ , she’d dose you with whiskey until you passed out. Those moments, when she was doing that, were the closest thing you felt to being loved weren’t they. That’s why it brings you comfort, times like now, when you’ve been ousted from your throne.  
Crowley, none of us can help how we feel because of what we’ve been through. All we can really help is what we do with it.

…ooo0ooo…

Dean sat in a chair in Jody’s living room, with Alex trying to clean up his screwed-up knee. Gritting his teeth and balling his hand into a fist against the pain, he stared at his Mom as he struggled to finish the glass of _water_ Jody had pushed into his hand with some antibiotic pills she’d dug up from somewhere.

Mary Winchester was tied to a chair; a trail of dried blood ran down her chin and a cold challenging smile sat pasted on her face.

“When she clocked me out of the blue, I thought she was a demon.” Jody said as she paced the floor.  
“I had no idea that brainwashing could be so thorough!”

“Jody, she...” Dean sighed deeply, his mother continued to stare at him, eyes flat and cold. He looked away, “I'm so sorry.” He muttered, unsure what else to say, things could have turned out so differently... and the thought made him want to get up and pace- but his screwed-up leg kept him on his ass.

“It's not _your_ fault.” Jody soothed, rolling her eyes, crossed her arms, “ _Fortunately_ , Alex came home…”

“All I did was buy you time. You knocked her out.” Alex contributed from where she knelt, dabbing at the oozing mess that was his leg.

He couldn’t help grunting and grimacing in pain.

“I'll get you something for the pain.” Alex offered and jumped to her feet.  
  
Hastily he downed the last of the water and handed her the glass. “Make it a double,” he requested with a hopeful look, because pain pills were great, but he _really_ needed a drink.

He turned to stare morosely at his mother again, resisted the urge to start chewing his nails.

Jody sighed and patted his arm in sympathy.

He allowed himself a moment to take Jody’s hand and squeeze it quickly in thanks. Grateful for the support, and the fact that both her and Alex were okay.

“Aww.” Mary sneered from the other side of the room. “You wanna play mother to _my_ son?” Jody tensed, and Dean felt a moment of pain for her. Jody had a son once… and she’d lost him, then had salt rubbed in the wound when he came back, turned into a zombie and killed her husband. All so Death could send them and Bobby a message.  
They’d told Mom a bit about Jody’s history, now it felt like Mom was using it to hurt her.

“He's all yours.” Mary jibed carelessly, looking at him like he was nothing. Dean sucked a breath.

“Dean!” Jody warned, trying to grab his attention. “That's not your Mom,” she argued, shaking her head.

Dean blinked and stared at his mother, eyes stinging… _God!_ he wished that was true  
… but there was a lagging doubt inside of him.  
She’d walked away and chosen the British Men of Letters over him and Sam, long before they brainwashed her….

Somehow, he couldn’t drag his eyes away from Mary’s face.

“What's the matter, Dean?” Mary asked with a smile. “Am I too different from the Mary you know?” she taunted.

Dean swallowed and looked away. Jody was right, not his Mom…

“…Or too much the same?” The woman, with his mother’s face mocked.

Thankfully Sammy chose that moment to interrupt by hauling Toni Bevell into the room.

“Here she is. Do your thing.” Sam ordered shortly looking pissed, and Dean wondered if Sammy had heard Mom’s last cut.

“All right, you said you could fix her, so fix her.” Dean contributed.

Toni swallowed, “I, um... Well, I –“ the usually unflappable British woman looked worried.

“She lied!” Mary smirked.

“What?!” Sam demanded.

“Mary's programming… It's permanent,” Toni admitted reluctantly.

“But, you said...” Dean said, hoping the British bitch would sneer and admit she’d just lied to mess with them.

“You were going to kill me!” Toni raised an eyebrow.  
“The Mary that you know, the good Mary, she's hiding behind impenetrable psychic walls."

"And I'm afraid these walls...” the British woman scoffed lightly, “Well, they can't be torn down with grenades.” Toni dropped her eyes.

“Your mother can't be saved.” She admitted simply.

From across the room, Mary Winchester met Dean’s horrified gaze and smirked.

…ooo0ooo…

Crowley stared at the woman and let his head rock on his neck, staring down at her, he pasted on an amused smirk.

  
“That’s the best you’ve got?” He raised an eyebrow and blew out a derisive breath.

Michele sighed, suddenly feeling utterly weary under the demon’s unrelenting scorn and contempt. Just wanted to curl up and cry.

If she did, some of those tears would have fallen for Fergus MacCleod, a little boy trapped inside a demon, with no father and a mother that believed love was weakness.

“No, the best I’ve got, is to say I’m sorry.” She answered sadly, “I’m sorry that your mother didn’t love you the way you deserved to be loved when you were a child.” She sighed, looking away from the black clad demon Monarch and pressed a kiss to her own son’s soft curls, holding him closer.

When she looked up Crowley was gone.

…ooo0ooo…

Dean cocked his gun and approached Toni. “All right, “Lady,” time's up.

We only kept you alive for one reason.” He muttered darkly.

“Hey, guys.” Sam yammered, and Dean winced, of course Sam would argue, after everything that they shouldn’t kill Toni.

“Listen, uh, Ketch keeps callin' Mom's phone.”

Oh- Dean raised an eyebrow, this once Sammy wasn’t arguing.

“I'll get it.” Mary offered snidely.

“Let it go to voicemail.” He grated annoyed.

Shoved Toni hard. “Let's take a nice little short walk to the backyard.”

Toni began struggling. “This is not going to stop.  
Soon enough, they'll find out you're alive, and then...  
Well, if you want my advice – run.”

“We're not running.” Dean answered.

“Well, then, you die.” The British woman predicted fatalistically.

“Or...” Sam suggested.

“Or what?” Toni asked sensing a reprieve.

“Or we fight.” Sam suggested.

Dean shared a look with his brother and dropped Toni’s arm, “Seems you just got useful again, Sweetheart.”

“There’s no way you three can go up against the British Men of Letters.”

Jody smiled, “who said it was just us three. Seems to me when they decided to wipe out every American hunter, they turned it into war.  
I think Sam’s got it right, we need to take the fight to them, it’s an invasion and this is our home.  
It’s time we did like the thirteen colony’s, fought for our independence.” 

…ooo0ooo…

Michele smudged the blood off her face feeling sick.

Picked up her phone and blinked at it dully.

She wasn’t crying, not now.

What did it mean? Had she finally reached her limit?

Months ago, when this first started, seeing what she’d just seen would have turned her into a wreck.

But now, now, she took it in and simply set her mind to working out how to stop it...

***

_The image of Dean stumbling, his injured leg crumpling under his weight at the worst possible time, a grunt of pain forced between his lips._

_The slow-motion moment, as Sam heard his brother and turned his head, Dean’s name forming on his lips._

_Sam failing to see the black clad guard come around the corner._

_A shot ringing out._

_Sam’s head punched back by the bullet, it entering his temple and exited again, leaving catastrophic destruction in its wake._

_“Sammy!”_

_Sam’s lifeless body pitching to the floor._

_Dean struggling to force himself to his feet._

_A second shot ringing out._

_Dean’s corpse falling back … empty green eyes still seemingly fixed on where his brother lay dead._

…ooo0ooo…

“Dean, I need you to listen to me, I know you are intending to take the fight to the British Men of Letters.”

“Sweetheart…” Dean’s voice had all the resonances of a parent telling a child something nasty was necessary.

“Shut-it and listen!” She spat in reply, “Dean you _can’t_ go with Sam.  
You have to let him do this alone!”

Dean grunted in surprise, he expected her to be arguing about the sanctity of human life. Not her saying he should let Sam go into combat without him.

“What? You have to be joking, I can’t send Sammy up against those douche-bags alone!”

Dean wouldn’t ever happily let his brother face that sort of danger without him.

**“You _can,_ and you _will_!”** Michele answered fiercely, terrified he wouldn’t listen.

“You have to! Or you’re signing your brother’s death warrant.

If you go, you get Sam killed! That’s not a guess, **_I’ve seen it, Okay_**?! **_I’ve seen his brains splattered on the wall.”_** She allowed herself one choked breath.

This was a gamble, and if she was wrong, Dean would never forgive her.

She _knew_ he would rather die beside his brother in a shoot out than outlive him.

“I’m begging you, for once Dean, LISTEN TO ME. You know I love you, I love you both.

Let your brother grow up, Dean! Please! Believe in him enough to trust him to do what needs to be done, without you.”

“Mitch….”

“Dean, I heard what Toni said, but I don’t believe it.” She rushed on. “I don’t believe your mother can’t be saved. Toni said she’s in there, hiding.

 **Hiding isn’t gone**.”

She hadn’t had a vision, she didn’t know! But Dean needed a mission, he needed to know he’d exhausted every avenue.

Dean still loved his Mom.

Michele just prayed that the woman deserved it; that there was enough of the Mary Winchester who stepped up in front of Billy and offered up her life in place of her son’s, left.


	102. Stepping Back

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 102: Stepping back**

_“If you go, you get Sam killed! You're signing your brother's death warrant. That's not a guess, I've seen it, Okay?! I've seen his brains splattered on the wall."_

The accusation circled in Dean’s head.

He hadn’t told Sam about Mitch’s call.

He’d limped back in from the impala numbly after she’d hung up and he’d retrieved the dog eared notebook of Hunter contacts, Bobby had left them with.

_“I'm begging you, for once Dean, LISTEN TO ME.”_

Throughout the hours of pumping Toni for info on the Men of Letters defences, formulating an attack plan, trying to talk a bunch of leery hunters into turning up at Jody’s without giving them much info; Dean fought a back and forth war within himself.

_“You know I love you; I love you both.”_

Sure, Mitch _seemed_ to care, maybe not the way Sam might want…but she always _seemed_ to have Sam’s best interest at heart. Thing was, _maybe_ it was an act. How well did they actually know the woman?

Letting Sammy go up against the British Men of Letters alone… with no-one to watch his back… it went against everything Dean saw as his brother’s best interest.

_“You feel he's your responsibility, I get it ... but he's an adult, and responsibility, sometimes it's about stepping back, letting them do what you've trained them to do, alone, so they can grow.”_

Sure. Sure, Sam was an adult he knew that … But… this wasn’t a game…

This was **_war_** , going up against long odds, trained killers.

Mitch _didn’t understand,_ or she wouldn’t suggest it!

“... _I've seen his brains splattered on the wall!”_

Besides, she had douche-bag angel and yellow eyed demon in her, what if she was some kind of double agent?

Who was to say she wasn’t playing them? What if all this was some form of long con?

_“I've seen it, Okay?!”_

Who said what she saw was even right? Even if Mitch wasn’t playing them, and 100% meant well.

It wasn’t like she saw _everything_ , knew everything. She and Sammy were forever telling him that.

_“If you go, you get Sam killed.”_

What if she got it wrong, what if he didn’t go… and Sam _still_ got killed? While he sat here with his thumb up his ass because he’d trusted some woman with no fricking idea.

By the time the other hunters started turning up at Jody’s door, Dean was no further ahead, no closer to determining if he ought to inform Sam of Mitch’s call, or deciding if he should listen to her.

…..

“Feet off the table, Jerry.” Jody scolded one of the greying hunters and continued handing out beers.

“Thanks.” He muttered, taking the beer Jody offered him, but didn’t raise the bottle to his lips.

His leg was killing him, and he really wanted to get off it, or to take the edge off with something stronger; but knew he needed to keep a clear head.

Stayed on his feet by Sam’s side, unwilling to show weakness around a group of Hunters, or even leave too much space between him and Sam. He was never fully at ease in a room of strangers.

…

There was a knock on the door.

“That should be the last one.” Jody informed them easily.

Dean braced himself as Alex answered the door.

This moment was the one thing he’d really argued with Jody and Sam over, the other reason for his jangling nerves.

The last two hunters walked into the room together.

“Walt. Roy.” Sam greeted nervously, giving the two Hunters a nod of greeting.

“Well, damn.” Walt breathed in surprise at seeing them.

“We haven't seen you guys since –“ Roy began, looking edgy.

“Since you killed us.” Dean answered antagonistically and felt Sam tense by his side; remembered belatedly he’d promised Sam and Jody he wouldn’t do this, that they needed every hunter they could get.

“No hard feelings,” he added with a sideways shake of his head, trying for a less defensive tone; as the sense memory, of Sam’s body flying backwards after the close quarters impact of that shotgun blast to the chest played in his head on loop.

Walt and Roy shared a look and Walt blew out a breath, raising an eyebrow at his friend.

“Uh, please, get comfortable.” Sam offered in a consolatory tone.  
|And it was all Dean could do, to stay put and not march over and rip the assholes lungs out, when he saw that shadowed guilty look on Sam’s face.  
Walt and Roy ought to be the ones feeling guilty, not Sammy. The assholes had played judge jury and executioner on Sam ‘cause they thought he was fricking antichrist, and then he ended up saving them and everyone else, throwing himself into a box in Hell with Lucifer and got tortured for lifetimes for his trouble!

“You sure about this?” Dean asked Sam again, sounding like a broken record.  
Sam opened his mouth, nerves, old guilt and pain written all over his face, and nodded tersely.

“You gonna tell us what we're doing here, or what?” Walt challenged and Dean took a step forward.

  
Sam put out an arm and shoved him lightly, it wasn’t hard, but it was hard enough to make his leg give slightly. Dean took an abrupt seat on the arm of the chair behind him.

“Ah. Of course. Yeah...Um, so my – my brother and I, we – we, um...” Sam looked at Dean like a deer in the headlights, then back at Walt.

He took a breath and straightened his shoulders. “No, you know what? _I_ called you here because people...” Sam took as step towards Walt and Roy. “Our people are being slaughtered.  
And we're next.”

The hunters round the room shifted and exchanged glances, they’d all heard the rumors, maybe even a few expected this.

“The British Men of Letters, they came here because they thought they could do our job better than we could.  
And they hooked us with their flashy gear and their tech.  
Most of you had the good sense to turn 'em down.  
I didn't.” Sam admitted and Dean felt a well of pride towards his brother.

Sam huffed in self derision and nodded.

“They _said_ they wanted the same thing we wanted, you know?  
A world free of monsters.  
That's not what they really wanted…  
They want control.  
They want to live in a world where they can sit in some office and decide who gets to live and who gets to die.

And they've killed people.  
They've killed _innocent_ people, just because they got in the way.  
They think the ends justify the means.  
But we know better…”

Dean watched the faces of the hunters in the room as Sam continued talking, his voice filled with entreaty and passion.

He watched those faces as the tide of opinion and mistrust Walt and Roy had turned, began to roll back.

“So, what do you want from us?” Roy asked finally.

“I want you to follow me.” He appealed looking Roy in the eye.

Dean lifted his head at Sam’s words, remembered what Sam’d admitted in the Bunker, as the air grew thin.  
And in that moment Dean could see it, that thing Mitch had been trying to tell him, even before today… that the guy standing here, his little brother, was trying to grow up, and be responsible for cleaning up his own mistakes.  
That Sam might always want him, but maybe, he actually didn’t need him.  
Usually these moments; when he faced Sam’s lack of need, made him feel panicked and useless, but today it was almost comforting.

_“Responsibility, sometimes it's about stepping back, letting them do what you've trained them to do, alone, so they can grow.”_

Dean blinked and stared at Sam.  
He knew he could step in, once again, take over and invalidate this for Sam, give him the message that he’d always be the kid in the equation - Or he could trust him, and let him grow up.

It was never about trusting Mitch.

It was about trusting Sam, believing in him.

Sam wasn’t a kid anymore.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam was worried about his brother.  
He’d gone out to the impala to get Bobby’s contact book and when he came back, after way too long, Dean had seemed off, distracted.  
Maybe it was the stuff with Mom, he’d come in on the tail end of something, when he brought Toni back in… and then discovering Toni had lied…  
Well, Sam guessed, _that_ had to have hit Dean hard. 

Maybe it was his knee, after Michele talking about Tetanus and infection, he’d never been gladder of Alex’s nurse training or Jody’s stash of antibiotics.

Maybe it was Walt and Roy, being forced to share air and make nice with the two Hunters that killed them, however briefly; repressing that Winchester instinct for vengeance...

Heaven knew being reminded of back then, their little sojourn into heaven, the pile of unspoken hurts they’d never dealt with… Well it wasn’t doing Sam’s head any favours either.  
But the job came first.

Dean had been unusually withdrawn throughout the task of convincing the other Hunters to join them against the Men of Letters.

Dean might always say he was better convincing people to do stuff, say it was his emo puppy eyes and psychobabble lawyer bull-crap. But usually Dean couldn’t help chipping in or making some off-color joke. Often his additions weren’t exactly helpful, but without them Sam felt off balance.

Jody, Toni and Alex had added more to filling the other Hunters in on the plan. Meanwhile Dean sat there with a weird contemplative look on his face.

Maybe Dean was just tired, Sam thought, he’d have to make sure Dean slept some on the way to the Men of Letters compound. Make him let him drive.

“You know where we’re going?” Jody asked the room at large and flipped him the impala’s keys, a silent proof that Jody had noticed it too and was suggesting that Sam drive.

Sam caught the keys fumblingly, “Yeap.” He replied for everyone else in the room.

“Gear up we roll out in ten.” Jody announced again.

Sam reached over and grabbed his brother’s forearm, dragging Dean to his feet.

“You ready?” He asked. Dean stood with difficulty.

“Ooh.” He winced.“Oh, no.I'm not goin'.”

Sam stared at his brother in surprise, “What?”

“No,” Dean repeated again. “My leg busted up the way it is, I'm no good in a fight.” Dean looked down at his knee and away from Sam’s eyes.

“I-I'll take a jacked-up Dean Winchester over any 10 other Hunters; any day.” Sam stammered.

“Yeah.” Dean muttered, looking up at him and took a small breath, “I saw you,” laid a hand on his arm. “You're ready for this.” He said, almost gently.

Sam shuffled his feet and stared into his brother’s green eyes.

There was so much in Dean’s eyes in that moment.

Dean swallowed.

“You show those sons of bitches who's boss.” He ordered giving him a small nod and a heart-breaking smile.  
It was like a stone settling in Sam’s stomach, a feeling of loss.

“What about you? What are you gonna do?” He asked finally.

“I’m gonna save Mom.” Dean answered, with that weird small smile on his face.

Sam took a step back from his brother and squared his shoulders, nodded in reply.  
There was a stab of hurt in it, that he was _choosing Mom_.

“Look, if she's in there, if our real Mom is in there somewhere,” Dean took a shaky breath, “then I'm gonna try and find her, an’ bring her back.”

Sam found himself nodding, if anyone could do it, Dean would.

Sam handed his brother the impalas keys, he’d ride with Jody.

Dean slid the keys into his pocket. Just stared at him, like he used to when Dad took him away on a hunt and he was forced to walk away and leave his little brother behind in some seedy motel room, in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. And hated doing it.

Dean gave him that same grin and slight shake of his head he used to.

“You got this.” Dean coached, then he swallowed, and a flash of pure terror showed through his confident veneer.

“Come here.” Dean demanded suddenly, tugging him into a hug, held on tight and fierce in a way Dean never usually allowed himself.

“You come back.” He ordered; his voice gruff against Sam’s shoulder.

“Promise!” Sam swallowed against a tightness in his throat.

For a second Dean held him tighter, then slapped his back and pushed him away slightly, muttering, “Bitch.”  
A sign that the aberrant chick flick moment was over.

“Jerk.” He replied, looking away, a smile curving his lips.

“Yeah.” Dean answered, in response to all the things they never said, the ones that always simmered unspoken in the air in these moments

Feeling his brother’s eyes on him, Sam turned and walked away.


	103. Swell Tricks

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 103: Swell Tricks**

Crowley lent against the silver people mover and waited, hands buried deep in his coat pockets and the mask of an affable smile on his face.

He watched the flow of parents dropping their children off at the suburban school thoughtfully.

Most parents simply parked their vehicles up and shooed their children out onto the curb.

The object of his attentions, however, would be delivering her eight-year-old personally to the teacher, as she did every day.

This act of helicopter parenting was something the demon usually found pathetically amusing.

But today, after ransacking a blood bank the evening before, and indulging himself with an orgy of human sensation and emotion; Crowley found himself viewing his pet Prophet’s dedication to her progeny with a new veneer of sentimentality.

The school bell rang.

A few minutes later his reticent Prophet and her youngest child approached, cutting across the playing field.

The once King of Hell frowned, watching the listless way the woman walked, feet dragging through the grass, and the child tugging her along.  
It wasn’t until they left the school that her eyes raised and noticed him standing there.  
Even then, she barely reacted, and continued to walk doggedly towards her car.

The child stopped on the curb and looked up at him with a dimpled grin of recognition on its face.

“Garr ‘ace ‘aww,” it announced nonsensically.

Drawing the child against her, the mother unlocked the car still refusing to make eye contact, gave him a wide berth, stepped around him to install the infant into its car seat, dodn’t saying a word.

Crowley eye balled the woman, disappointed by her lack lustre response to his presence. Taking note of the glaze of perspiration on her skin and the dull glassy look to her eyes he surmised the lack of greeting was a sign she was feeling a tad under the weather.

“Poppet you look like Hell, and I should know.” He needled, trying to provoke a more satisfying reaction.

“Yeah…” she replied wearily, voice husky with illness. Smoothed a tender hand through the child’s hair as she straightened and shut the car door.

The woman faced him for a moment, chin lifted with an impassive stare, as if daring him to make her day worse. Then, dropped her head and coughed into her hand.

“No neutrophils means no immune system, I’m sort of dying here Crowley,” her answer was matter of fact, she shrugged. “Hell isn’t where I’m going though.” 

“I _could_ fix all of that, Pet.” He offered with a come-on smile on his lips.

The woman rolled her eyes tiredly. “Yeah— ‘but it’s a little bit embarrassing, there’s this technicality... you need a little something to get the magic going.’ Right? I’d get between one and ten years extra, in exchange for my soul, and an eternity of torment in Hell, forever separated from God?  
I’ll pass thanks.  
Demon deals and lotto, are both for people who suck at maths.”

Crowley tilted his head with a half smile of acknowledgement, pleased to have dragged out more than an automated response.

“Touché.  
But Darling, do tell. What’s so attractive about heaven? Solitary confinement, under angelic lock down, replaying a bunch of your old memories? I hear tell, big G left the building and is now road tripping god-knows-where—pun intended, with his sister. So, separation from God… I’d say, that’s a moot point.”

“Mmmm.” The woman husked and turned away from him to climb into the vehicle’s driver’s seat, shutting the door in his face.

_Rude!_

Crowley transported himself into the car’s passenger seat uninvited.

Tapped his fingers irritably against his knee, as she lent back in her seat looking exhausted.

The Prophet glanced at him, then took out her phone and appeared to google something.

_“Isaiah 65:17: See, I will create new heavens and a new earth.  
_ _The former things will not be remembered, nor will they come to mind.”_

The woman read the scripture verse off her phone in a ravaged voice. Coughed and turned her head to look at him. “The Bible says that after, the _real, actual,_ Revelations apocalypse and final judgement. God will create a _new_ Heavens and a _new_ Earth, the rest of the chapter talks about people building homes and raising crops, living _life_ with God present. That, before God’s people call Him, He’ll answer them, so that road trip, it doesn’t last forever.” She broke off again to cough into her hand once more.

The demon hid a disgusted grimace at the sound and sight of the woman’s sickness from a closer vantage point.

“That’s the big picture Crowley.” She continued doggedly, as if imparting theology were a useful way to spend her lagging energy. “The status quo of Heaven and Hell now… it’s just a holding tank, until after that final judgement…”

He grunted, “I bet you, and your google bible verses, are a real hit at parties Kitten.”

“Garr ‘ace aww!” The infant proclaimed again from its place in the back seat.

The child’s mother looked over her shoulder and the side of her mouth twitched, as if the sounds meant something amusing.

“Do share with the rest of the class, Pet.  
Winston Churchill in the back had something to add?”

“Maybe it’s your propensity to dress in black… or just an association with the story… or this...” The woman canted towards him a little unsteadily, and brushed a fever hot hand along his cheek, next to the mostly healed wound in his meat suit.

“Chris seems to have it in his head that you’re Scar Face Claw, the toughest tom in town.”

Crowley lifted a brow and ran one finger down the back of the small, too hot hand still on his face.

Belatedly, the Prophet realised what she was doing and snatched her hand back from his face, shying away.

“Sorry… I didn’t … know demons could heal Uh …dead bodies. ” She coloured with discomfort, before turning her face away to smother another burst of coughing.

“Most can’t. But I’m not exactly demon minion number three.”

He adjusted his tie self importantly, brushing a hand over the imperceptible bulk of his stash of contracts (with that special, extra, open ended clause) he kept on him at all times.

Annoyingly her response was minimal, once again.

She simply turned the car-key to start the vehicle. Then sat blinking through the windscreen, as if she’d forgotten where she wanted to go, or how to drive.

He was here to extract information from her about Lucifer’s spawn. Before it was born, or the utter bastard that ousted him tracked down the brood mare and heavens most moronic angel.

“You’re sick.” He accused, “can’t you go to the hospital, take an antibiotic or something?”

“It’s probably a virus… you don’t treat viruses with antibiotics...” she muttered, then rolled her head sideways and smiled at him almost vindictively  
“Besides if I get a decent case of pneumonia, maybe I’ll die. Then you won’t have any reason to keep stalking me and my family, will you, your majesty?

I thought about it, you know,” she murmured laconically, “just slitting my wrists, after you turned up and threatened Johnny… but… my family they’d blame themselves. And I thought … I thought… play for time… because I don’t have anything you can use to harm anyone.” Her face creased. “Then I thought you were dead, and _they_ were _dying_ and a small nasty part of me was _happy,_ you know.” She laugh-coughed mirthlessly as she stared at him with fever bright eyes. “But they didn’t, and you weren’t… and you turned up on my doorstep and I found I was _relieved_ … I’d actually _felt guilty_ for not being able to help _you,_ even though you probably got what you deserved.  
Guess you’re right, I must be stupid.  
So now, we’re back here, and I won’t _choose_ to leave my family, but when my time runs out — whether that’s because I finally bleed out, or _you_ snap my neck… or from this dumb virus. I’ll be _glad_ it’s over.” A tear rolled unnoticed down her cheek. “I’m just so tired… _and it hurts all the time.  
_So… tell me, why are you here Crowley? What do you want?” She asked in a whispered broken voice, sitting there, looking for all the world like a puppet with its strings cut.

No wonder the Winchester’s wanted to adopt her like some stray cat, Crowley thought to himself and shifted uncomfortably. She was so pathetic!

He regretted the human blood that was still swirling through his system, making him feel - _pity,-_ making him want to reach out and lay a consoling hand on her shoulder and say something - _comforting-_.

This was infuriating, she wasn’t any bleeding use to him like this, mostly bled out and sick. A pathetic little ball of wet fur. 

Then It occurred to him, how he could use the situation to his advantage.

He dipped a hand inside his coat and drew out a contract and pen, began to write in a sub clause.

“I told you Crowley, I’m not making a deal!”

“Oh, I’m cognisant of that, Ma Chérie. And I’m not one to waste time pursuing a bird who has no intention of putting out, unlike Moose.  
But there is more than one way to tame a shrew.  
The interesting thing about those individuals who _do_ deal away their souls, and _are_ as you said, bad at math… is that they invariably undersell … even the most blackened soul is worth _far_ more than the selling price…  
A sub clause here, ambiguous wording there… and wallah! _L-e-e-w-a-y_...” he paused for effect, and smiled at her, “ _I know all kinds of swell tricks, Kitten.  
_…And I look after my friends… _we are friends, aren’t we Poppet?”_

Sam’s pet’s eyes widened in horror. “No! No, no, no you can’t!” she protested, finally dredging up some passion to fight against the idea of benefiting from someone else’s damnation. Of having her get out of jail free card shredded. She was so like Deano, this would eat her up.

_Delicious!_

“Oh, _but I can…_ in fact I _insist_.” He gloated finishing the sub clause with a small flourish, while he restrained her easily with a thread of power.

Crowley tapped his lips with the pen and watched narrow eyed and amused, relishing his barbed victory as the clause took affect.

It was worth tapping out one of his dwindling supply of contracts, for the sight of that perfect glowing health, and abject horror.


	104. The Hook in the Bait

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 104: The hook in the bait**

Michele was struggling.

Crowley had really hit her self esteem with his criticisms the day before, leaving her internally fragile and wobbly.

Then later, she had overheard one of her daughters on the phone to a friend.  
Jennifer spoke of hearing a call between her dad and his boss, while Michele was in hospital.

Apparently, Phil’s boss wasn’t as supportive as he had led her to believe.

Maybe, if she’d been diagnosed with cancer, his boss would be more understanding, but this… sickness, with no name or reasonable cause… he must be wondering if she was just useless, a hypochondriac.

The useless bit was starting to feel truer each day.

Especially after Phil raised the idea of putting their two-year-old into day-care (which they couldn’t afford) that night, as they lay in bed.

She’d always been the one who looked after everyone else, it was her job! Now, Phil thought she couldn’t do it.

She was becoming a burden to the people she loved.

Then, to confirm all the doubts and fears she fell asleep battling; she woke with a sore throat, that was rapidly becoming something worse, something that might require _another_ hospital stay.

It felt like the final straw, to see Crowley, standing outside Johnny’s school waiting for her.

She tried to push aside her worries and despair, the way she did every other day. Tried to find the opportunity and the good.

But then, Crowley had looked at her with such withering distaste, as he told her to take an antibiotic or go to the hospital, and she’d felt beyond exhausted.

So tired of the losing battle … of failing EVERYONE.

~ Crowley didn’t actually care; he was a demon. And that made him the only person she could be honest with; about the despair she was choking on.  
She couldn’t hurt or fail _him_. Dying might be best. Crowley wanted to use her to track Kelly and her child, and she was conflicted, over the right move, considering he was threatening her family.

She wanted to shake him.

Once she started, she said too much, it all came out like a lapful of vomit… How she’d considered following Kelly’s example.

Her guilt and conflicted emotions when Sam and Dean had been trapped and suffocating, when she thought Crowley was dead...

How she longed for it to be over.

She knew she’d said to much, when Crowley smiled that smile.

When he took out a scroll and pen.

Reiterating again, that she wouldn’t make a deal didn’t affect that smile. He just started talking about people underselling their souls, subclauses, ambiguous wording and leeway, as he scratched his pen over the parchment.

Through the fog of fever, it came to her with horrifying clarity, what Crowley was suggesting.

“No! No, no, no you can't!"

Surely Crowley couldn’t use some _other_ person’s soul…?  
She wanted to grab Chris and flee, but the demon was a step ahead, he wrapped her in his power, held her pinned.

"Oh, but I can… in fact I insist." The demon assured her, his eyes glinting red as he stared at her avidly, tapping the gold fountain pen to his lips.

The magic slammed into her, penetrating and pervading her body and blood. Erasing the months of incremental damage, between one breath and the next.

The change, from circling the drain, to unscathed health, like the snap of her fingers.

It bordered on orgasmic.

Left her gasping.

All the while Crowley held her there, pinned, staring into her eyes as it happened, a sick parody of intimacy; one she hadn’t wanted or consented to, but was too weak to fight.

It felt like an invasion, far worse than what he’d done to her at the duck pond, licking her blood off his fingers while she was passed out and helpless.

But this… **_Ohhhhh this!_ **

Everything in her sang, after dragging through her days for so long, and her traitorous heart rebelled against giving _this_ up now she’d tasted it.

This thing Crowley had done, it looked like a gift, a kindness, and that was surely the manipulation.

It was wrong, wrong, wrong!

The cost was some stranger’s **_soul_**.

Her head knew it, but her heart couldn’t help the fierce greedy gratitude.

Crowley tucked the contract away into his jacket, like a magician.

Cupped her chin in his hand and examined her closely, brushing his thumb over her bottom lip whitch made her cringe remembering his words the day before, but he just tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear before letting her go.  
Nodded to himself, pleased.

“Better?” The demon enquired mildly, a smug smile hovering on his lips.

“I didn’t ask for that.” She forced the words out, trying for anger and resentment, but it came out softer and more wondering.

“What? That little tantrum _wasn’t_ a cry for help?” The demon challenged.  
“Deny it all you want, Pet. You _want_ this.  
Think of Moppet in the back. Precious, fragile Johnny in there.  
Your lovely twins. Clueless, doting hubby.  
They all _need_ you, Darling.” He splayed his hands and looked at her like he was waiting.

“Chin up, Poppet. Robin Barrett was hell bound anyway.”

The name screeched across her conscience, like nails down a blackboard. “Robin Barrett?” She repeated in a whisper.

“One-time Priest…” Crowley supplied; eyebrows raised.

_A Priest?!_

Michele buried her face in her hands, throat clogged with self loathing, as she thought of John Winchester bartering his soul for Dean’s recovery, and of Dean selling his soul for Sam.

_She had to make him take this back, it was wrong, wrong wrong._

“One-time Priest, a-n-d registered child sex offender.” Crowley continued in an amused tone after a few beats. “Acquitted once again, last month on child pornography charges… As he will continue to be… for… the next ten months and nine days…”

Michele raised her eyes and stared at the once King of Hell.

“Then, my hounds will tear him a cornucopia of new orifices, and he’ll get to enjoy the attentions of the rack staff.” Crowley flashed her a winning smile.  
“I know Robin Barrett is everything you _loath,_ Sweetness… A man who claimed to serve _your_ God. Who used his position to prey on _vulnerable_ , _innocent children._

Robin Barrett, he deserves everything he will get.

But _you_ … You love God, you’re one of his favourites, a prophet… the last perhaps. What kind of God would want _you_ to suffer? Surely you deserve this…”

And it was seductive, the temptation to compare, and call herself worthy, and the other person; this Robin Barrett, a pedophile, irredeemably unworthy – expendable for her sake.

To say, I want this, and because I can and the price is someone less worthy, I have a right to take it.

It was human.

But a quieter voice argued that judgement was God’s, not hers. That Crowley was a demon, and there was a hook buried in this bait.

“Crowley, it doesn’t matter who he is, or what he’s done. No matter how **_despicable_** I find his sins… t-there is a right and a wrong…. This is wrong. I can’t accept this…. please...take it back.”

  
"Take it back _, take it back!?_ This is what I get, _for trying_.” Crowley spat, looking affronted.

“You said, _you said,_ it was about what we choose to do. So, I _chose!_ Spent resources I could use _to reclaim my throne_ ; I chose to h-e-l-p you. I thought… you would be grateful…  
You don’t care about your children growing up alone. You _want_ to abandon them. Your black and white, holier than thou world view, that’s what you actually care about, isn’t it?"

"Everything else you said, about repentance and redemption, was a _lie_!” Crowley turned away from her arms crossed.

“Nooo Crowley,” Michele reached out and laid a hand on the demon’s back, felt the muscles tense and relax under her hand.

“I am grateful… I am, really… and I _do_ want to live… I think there’s good in you, Crowley… but being _responsible_ for damning…”

Crowley turned back and looked at her, for a second there was something disconcerting in his expression.

“You aren’t. I am.” The demon replied calmly, mercurial in his responses.  
He dusted an invisible speck from his jacket lapel. “So, done is done, it won’t last, let’s not quibble over it.” 

Her phone began chiming at that moment, a Skype call, Sam or Dean.

She glanced at Crowley guiltily as she pulled out her phone.

“It’s Dean…” she said softly, tilting the phone so Crowley could see the screen, guilt clamoured under her skin, if Dean knew what had happened, he’d think she was some sort of parasite…

“I… I won’t answer.”

Crowley caught her cast encased wrist.

“Don’t refuse on my account. In fact, _I insist._ ” He leaned in, and a loud crack came from the now pointless cast on her wrist.

Michele looked down with shocked eyes, to see that the fibreglass cast had pulverised under Crowley’s fingers, he thean proceeded to tear it off roughly, and tossed it out the window.

“Pretend like I’m not even here.” He advised in an easy, good natured voice.

His threat, however, was clear.

“Dean?” she answered after a few steadying breaths, pressing the phone to her ear.

The phone shot out of her hand, into Crowley’s. The demon put it onto speakerphone and laid it nonchalantly on the dash between them.

“Hey Mitch, wantedta tell you, I … didn’t go with Sam…”

Crowley raised an intrigued eyebrow.

Michele closed her eyes and let out a breath; helplessly confused by the barrage of mixed signals Crowley kept subjecting her to.

She tried to centre herself on Dean, she owed him that.

”Thank-you… I know that must have been hard.”

Dean hummed cynically in reply. “Yeah… Hey listen Mitch, about what you said, that hiding ain’t gone, Toni’s gonna try getting’ me into Mom’s head…”

Michele glanced across at Crowley. “That’s … that’s good Dean.”

“Thing is…” Dean faltered, and Michele clenched her fist at the vulnerability in his voice, “I don’t know… How do _I_ get her to come back? … I mean, Sammy’s better at that stuff.”

She tried to push the weight of Crowley’s presence aside, knew Dean was only calling her and asking for help because he was so terrified of failing Sam and his mother.

“Dean, honey… it’s not about having the right four syllable words. It’s about connection, you’re her _child_ , her _son_. My advice is to be honest. I’d do _anything_ for my kids.”

“You would, yeah... Don’t think Mom feels that way about us though Mitch… she keeps leavin’, ya know. We’re not.... _I’m_ not worth …”

“Hey! Don’t you dare tell me you aren’t worth _the world_ , Dean. You saved it, remember. You are worth _EVERYTHING_.”

Dean scoffed, as usual unconvinced.

“Your mother leaving all those times, that was about her - On her, not _you_ ; or Sam.”

Dean made a, ‘yeah right’ sound.

“Look some Mum’s they can’t give their kids what they need, my girls birth Mum for example, and that’s _not_ the kids fault, I need you to get that, okay? Your Mum makes choices, _has_ made choices, _for herself_ and they’ve wounded you and Sam, but they weren’t _about_ you.  
If she chooses to stay in her head… that isn’t your fault either, okay?  
I see you Dean Winchester, and _I know_ you are worth the world, worth pushing through what ever is going on in her head for. So if she hears you, sees you, and doesn’t choose to fight, or come back... then that’s all _her_ failure.  
Get her to look at you, and tell her the truth, all the truth, be honest with her, Dean. Tell her how you feel, all of it, the good the bad and the ugly.  
That way, no matter what happens, you’ll know you did your best, maybe that’ll help you move past and find a way to forgive her for all the things that have happened.”

Dean hummed noncommittally in the back of his throat, betraying his deepening discomfort, and her attention was pulled to Crowley listening in once more, she didn’t want Dean to say anything that the demon could use against him. 

“How’s your leg?” She asked, changing to a less emotionally charged topic.

“Sammy said you were worried. You hopin’ to play doctors and nurses?”

Humour, Dean Winchester’s go to. His safe ground.

“I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples, bastards and broken things… So yes, I want you hale and healthy. Not broken or crippled.”

Dean snorted. “What ever Tyrion. It’s just a flesh wound. Jody gave me some antibiotics. So, I’m good, not gonna get lockjaw, need my leg chopped off or anything.”

“Yeah, yeah, just a flesh wound.  
But see, I know that’s what you are; Flesh and bone, and bones only make up like 15% of your average human.”

Dean chuckled darkly and his voice took on that dark chocolate tone that always flustered her.

“Not average in any measurement, Sweetheart.”

She flushed and flicked a glance sideways at Crowley.

“They say everything’s bigger in America, doesn’t make it better.” She replied a little lamely.

Could feel Crowley’s eyes on her, was she blushing?

“How’s band camp?”

A while back, Dean had clicked that the redheaded geek girl with an unexpectedly racy side in the American Pie movies was also called Michelle, he’d teased her that she had a million ‘this one time at band camp’ stories about her family. Thankfully, Sam had put the brakes on the whole conversation, before she did something inappropriate, like asking Dean if he’d ever loved him some pie _in that way_ …

Thing was, Dean seemed to like stories about her kids and family.

“Uh, band camp is okay.” She answered, without adding on her usual rejoinder, of calling him American pie.

Hoped Crowley wouldn’t catch the references.

Thought for a bit to come up with a suitable life story to amuse Dean. “Last week while I was, uh, out -and her father didn’t know what she was up to-. Victoria decided to cut up one of her pairs of jeans. To make shorts. But Vic being Vic, she had to make them w-a-y too short, like if she bent over you could see her knickers… She wanted to wear the damn things to her school sports day. Her excuse was that all her other shorts made her too hot.”

Dean cleared his throat, “More like she wanted to _look_ hot.” 

“Yes, I’m aware.” She rolled her eyes in exasperation, “she wants the boys to pay attention, and given the chance she’d go about it in exactly the wrong way … Cos she’s 15, and teenagers are dumb ~ That and God made teenaged daughters to punish their parents, more specifically their _fathers_ for being teenaged boys once upon a time.” She sniggered. “Phil looked like a cross between a deer in the headlights and a goldfish when she walked into the room wearing them.”

“So anyway, in the midst of me telling her Hell no! And Phil standing there looking like a stunned goldfish, Johnny pops out of his room and says, “Mum, it’s because Victoria is a tardigrade.”

Of course, Vic screamed at him to mind his own business, which made him cry. Then she stormed off to her room, slamming the door.”

“Slamming doors, reminds me of Sam at that age, must be what all teenaged girls do, huh?”

“I never did, and Sam is not a girl. So, ten minutes later I hear Vic laughing, she sweeps out of her room and rushes into Johnny’s room and hugs him.

She’d googled tardigrade. Turns out they’re tiny microscopic creatures that can survive extreme cold, fascinating little things; more bullet-proof than cockroaches by miles. Johnny wasn’t insulting his sister; he was trying to support her…

Didn’t change the fact that the shorts were _way_ too short of course. But it gave us all a pause, in the end we compromised, and I stitched some lace round the leg hems to give them an extra couple of inches so she didn’t look like a hooker, and get sent home for disrupting the boys concentration. Her friends thought they were cool, apparently. Wanted to know where she bought them… I’m pretty sure there’s gonna be a spate of cut up jeans in the future; her friends’ parents are gonna be cursing my name.”

“If their biggest problem is their kids cuttin’ on their clothes, they’ve got easy lifes Mitch.

Speakin’ of seein’ the future, you need another transfusion yet?”

Michele cut a glance towards Crowley. “Had one recently, I’m feeling pretty good right now…”

“Hey Mitch? You don’t _know_ that Sam’s gonna be okay do ya?”

“No, I just know that if both of you had gone, you both would have died… and that it was your leg giving way that distracted Sam at the wrong moment…”

Dean grunted and beside her Crowley shifted in his seat.

“Huh, So you’re playin’ the odds?”

“Yes Dean, I’m sorry. Sam was going no matter what, he needs to.  
And Chuck, he said you are the firewall, that the world needs you… Kelly, she might be safe from Dagon, but other things want her child.”

Crowley turned baleful eyes to her, narrow in warning as he gestured sharply to Chris in the backseat, and ran a his other hand across his throat. A clear threat.

“Don’t like it, but I get it.” Dean answered, heedless. “Guess I better go check up on her Ladyship… Can’t trust some people.”

“Y-Yes.” She stammered, staring at Crowley in apprehension as she shock her head, begging the demon with her eyes not to punish her son for her mistake.


	105. The Truth Will Set You Free

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 105: The Truth Will Set You Free**

Dean Winchester hung up from his call with Mitch, and rubbed at the back of his neck with a sigh.

He’d never admit it, but talking to her always made him feel better ~ well, as better as he was gonna feel, about trusting Toni frickin’ Bevell, and trying to gate-crash his Mom’s brain.

He checked his messages again, feeling a little compulsive.

There was another text from Sam.

He and his merry band of hunters were 20 minutes out from British Men of Letters HQ.

No guarantees Sammy’d come home… there never were. It was just easier to ignore when he was there too.

He sent a text back. Told Sam Toni was rigging up a way to get into Mom’s head and that he’d found the signal jammer Ketch had used to stop them calling out of the Bunker, but no trace of Sam’s wifi router and signal booster that he’d been bitching about (like a pubescent girl.)

…ooo0ooo…

Sam read his brother’s message with an annoyed huff.

Dean might say _he_ whined about internet like a prepubescent girl, but when Dean worked out that no router and signal booster meant no Netflix, no YouTube and no porn, Dean was gonna be unbearable. 

Their cell plans had plenty of call time and texts but _not nearly enough data_ , they needed a decent connection and wifi.

The Lebanon Kansas library might have free wifi, but it was limited and the library was only open Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday, for like 4 hours. Lebanon Kansas was such a small town, it was gonna be huge pain in the ass. 

He’d have to purchase a new router and signal booster ASAP.

Thinking about wifi and Data made him think of his promise to Michele.

He looked across at Jody and cleared his throat.

“Jody, Uh …. You’ve never been to our place.” He began.

Jody tilted her head. “No, I haven’t. Figured that was kinda the way you boys liked it.”

“Yeah uh… well we do … kinda …you not knowing where we live _is_ safer for you and the girls…”

Jody snorted and gave him a look that spoke volumes. “Sam you’re smarter than that. After the incident with ‘Roderick’,” she made air-quotes with one hand, “we both know there’s no such thing as safe. And as for the girls … Claire’s pretty much allergic to safe. And I wouldn’t mention this, but I _did_ just have a visit from your Mother…”

“Yeah…umm…” he looked away, reminded again of how many times Jody had nearly become a casualty because of knowing them, like Ash, Jo and Ellen, Bobby, Kevin, Charlie… the list went on.

“You’re right, Jody, of course you’re right, guess it’s time you knew where we live huh?”

Jody smiled at him warmly and reached out a hand and patted his knee. “So, what brought this on?”

“A- a friend, she, she …” he stuttered and felt his cheeks heat, “…Dean’s leg didn’t get messed up in a hunt. Ketch, one of the British Men of Letters locked us in the Bunker. They shut off the air, and all our contact outside. We were suffocating like bugs in a jar, Jody.  
Anyway Dean, he blew a hole through the wall with his grenade launcher and crawled up an old sewer pipe. He got us out.”

Jody was staring at him, open mouthed, not looking at the road.

“You boys lead exciting lives, don’t you?” She said finally.

“Yeah, guess we do. Which brings me back to my, uhhh _our,_ friend. She kind of sees the future, and she saw what was going on. Tried to warn us. Wanted to help. But… we uhh missed her call....”

“And that got you to thinking that no one knows where you live?”

He favoured Jody with a rueful smile. “Yeah sort of. So, I’d like to give you our address. You and the girls are the closest thing we have to family.”

“Us, your Mom, and your friend without a name?”

He ducked his head and combed a hand through his hair restlessly.

“Uhhh no, the psychic, my friend, M-Michele she, she doesn’t live in America…” Jody raised an eyebrow, “so I was wondering if I could give her your contact details, an email address or something, you know, just in case we have something similar h-happen in the future, Jody.” He looked at her and swallowed.

“Of course, Sam.” Jody nodded decisively, he gave her a relieved smile.

“Michele was actually the one that suggested that we all quit hiding our heads in the sand and apprentice Claire to a full time, female hunter. If she’s going to insist on hunting.”

“Is that so?” Jody’s voice was deceptively mild. “So this Michele, is she a hunter?”

He laughed, “No Jody, she’s a Mom… and a scientist…” he shook his head to himself. “She’s got a couple of teenaged girls of her own, says they all do dumb things,” he picked at the seam of his jeans, then glanced up. “She says that we gotta to prepare them the best we can… then Uhh …pray.” He ducked his head again. “She talks about how, with kids, it’s better to put a safety rail at the top of the cliff instead of a ambulance at the bottom.

I think, you’d like her.”

…ooo0ooo….

Dean sat in a chair facing his mother as Toni attached electrodes to her forehead. The electrodes led to an antiquated electrical box, with dials and a green screen with wiggly lines. Toni had already stuck a bunch on to him.

Handcuffs dangled from one of Toni’s wrists, kept rapping against the table and the machine, aggravating her as she worked.

“These electrodes sync your Delta waves with Mary's forming a psychic link.” Toni explained primly, “but to enter her psyche will take a certain measure of concentration and skill.” She adjusted some knobs on the machine. “And as there's no time…” she’d argued for more time but he was determined to do it now, “to teach you how to reach the necessary therapeutic dream state, I'm banking on this.” She held up a large syringe of something she’d cooked up in the lab.

“Hypnotic agents laced with a potent sedative.” She injected the liquid into Mary’s neck, making his mother wince.

“It's enough to knock an elephant on its trunk.”

Dean watched his mother pass out.

As Toni turned and picked up the second syringe she’d prepared, and uncapped it.

Dean reached out and closed the handcuff dangling from Toni’s wrist around the table leg.

The handcuff keys were in a jar in the kitchen. Toni wouldn’t find them while he was knocked out.

“Really?” Toni asked looking incensed.

“Little insurance. You understand.” He muttered looking at her sideways with a smirk, he may have agreed to give her a head start if she helped him get his Mom back, give her a chance to see her kid again, if she actually had a kid, (what kind of Mom was Toni Bevell, psycho bitch anyway?) But that didn’t mean he was dumb enough to leave her wandering about unchecked, or that he would give her a chance to do a runner if this was all just a ploy.

“This will hurt.” She assured him sarcastically. “ _You understand.”_

Toni jabbed him in the neck with the needle and smiled sadistically, injected the hypno-crap in extra slow to make a point.

Doctors always told you to count back from 10 when they put you under, Dean got as far as 10, then the world spun away.

…..

Next thing Dean knew, he ‘woke,’ sitting in a plush brown recliner, in a living room.

Hardwood floors, gauzy lace curtains, soft olive walls, crisp white painted skirting's. A fireplace, with a rug and one of those yellow metal dump trucks in front of it, that all little boys have at some stage. Bookshelves with nick-nacks. Lamps. An old-style phone and T.V. 

Dean climbed to his feet and realized his knee wasn’t screwed up anymore.

Remembered that this was some kind of dream, that he was inside his Mom’s head.

This was home. The place they’d been a family.

He walked through the living room and into the kitchen, stared at the oven and cream painted cabinetry, the brown Formica bench-top, and the wallpaper with green leaves and pink and yellow flowers.

Found himself walking towards the stairs, the stairs that haunted his nightmares… remembered carrying Sammy down them, away from the fire and the smoke… Dad behind him, yelling for Mom.

From behind him, back the way he come, he heard a baby cry.

Dean turned back toward the living room, saw a large wooden crib in the middle of the room.

Sammy’s crib.

He walked towards it and looked down, in the crib was a baby in a blue onesie.

Sam’s hazel slightly slanted eyes stared up at him, flailed chubby baby arms and legs at him and waved the blue blanket, burbling at him in baby talk.

“Sam.” He greeted the memory of his brother.

Suddenly, Mary was on the other side of the crib, bending over and smiling down at baby Sam.

“Are you awake?” She asked gently. “It’s nap time, shhh shhhh.” She soothed, Sammy cooed up at her, gabbling in baby talk as she covered him with the blanket again.

Mary Winchester smiled down at his little brother and Dean’s heart hitched, he wished Sam could see this.

Mom’s hair was long again, and she was wearing the soft purple sundress with the silver heart locket, he remembered from his heaven memory.

Mary walked back into the kitchen, he followed trying to remember Mitch’s advice.

“Dean, lunch is ready.” Mary called.

A child walked into the kitchen and seated himself at the kitchen table in front of the placemat and glass of milk.

Dean stopped confused.

The kid was maybe 7, not 4, the age that’d fit with baby Sam in there.  
Way older than he’d been when Yellow Eyes killed Mom.  
The kid wasn’t him - how he looked in the few photos he’s seen of himself at that size.

He’d been blockier, with a bit of a podge from too much canned stuff and dinner food, not enough vegetables. His ears had stuck out more, and his hair had been sun bleached and choppy, sporting one of dad’s god-awful bowl cuts, from before dad had decided that a buzz cut with the clippers was good enough for the marines and good enough for his sons.  
His face had always been dirty, splodged full of freckles. And his clothes, they’d usually been either too big or too small, thrift shop hand-me-downs.

This kid wasn’t him … how actually he’d been.

This ‘Dean’ was how his Mom imagined he had looked at that size.  
This kid was more refined, smoother, better cared for; and better looking than he’d ever been at that age.

But the kid did kind of look like a kid he knew.

This kid looked a heck of a lot like Mitch’s eldest boy, Johnny. And that was just weird!  
There was a definite surface resemblance.  
It hit him like a wave, he’d always thought Mitch’s youngest looked kinda like Sam at the same age, similar mop of wavy hair, kinda slanted eyes and killer dimples. He’d never mentioned that to Sam, blown it off, all kids looked similar at 2, right? But he wondered now if that was why Mitch treated him and Sam the way she did. Was she equating him and Sam with the men her boys might become?

He shook the thought off, and stepped closer to Mom.

“Mom.  
We gotta get out of here, okay?  
You need to come with me.

Mom?!”

  
His Mother didn’t respond, she simply turned away and handed the dark haired green-eyed kid a plate with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on it.

It had the crusts cut off, just like from his heaven memory.

Mary stroked a tender hand through the kids hair and smiled at him before turning away.

“Mom?” He called.

“MOM!”

Mary continued to move about the kitchen, oblivious to his calls.

“Mom!” Dean tried again, went over to where she stood at the kitchen bench.  
“Look, I know that they messed with your head, okay?  
I know it feels _better_ in here.  
It feels safer.  
But I-I need you to hear me.” He begged, standing right up close.

Dean thought he saw a look flicker in Mary’s eyes as she turned away, back towards young ‘Dean’ at the table.

“I was thinking maybe we should take Sammy to the park later, before Daddy gets home. Sound good?”

The boy nodded enthusiastically and smiled.

“Mom, look at me.” He demanded and grabbed at her arm.

A look of irritation flashed across Mary Winchester’s face and she pulled her arm out of his grasp, walked over to the oven.

Dean stared at his hand for a moment, and then across at his mother.

Mom was solid, he was solid here too.

Realized that to pull away from him like she had, to keep turning away from him… that at some level she had to know he was there.

He watched his mother open the oven door and pull out a pie, stared at her blindly trying to work out what to do.

“You're choosing this.” He accused.

“Your favorite.” Mary singsonged to the boy at the table.

“Yes!” The kid enthused with a fist-pump.

She raised a finger with a smile. “After you eat.” She admonished indulgently and knelt down next to the boy, again, pointedly not looking at her real son.

“I only want good things for you, Dean.” She told the boy, “I'll never let anything bad happen to you.”

This was a performance. A play she was performing.

Something occurred to him then, something he’d never really thought about. The heaven memory. Mom and Dad had been fighting and Dad moved out for a couple of days, in it she was wearing the same dress and locket.  
He’d always blamed Dad, thought he was the one in the wrong.   
Mom had told him it was Daddy’s fault, that he was being silly.  
But…. They knew Mom kept hunting, she saved Asa Fox when he was like one? They’d never asked if or when she’d stopped Hunting.  
Those fights, Dad yelling, ‘where were you?’ …  
Was that because Mom kept disappearing, going on hunts?  
Why, with all the lore Grandpa Campbell had, all that hunter knowledge, why hadn’t Mom done anything to ward the house? She knew what was out there.  
She knew Yellow Eyes was coming back in ten years.

Mom had never been just an innocent victim, she’d known way more than Dad had. But she’d buried her head in the sand. And yeah, she’d died for it, but it was Sammy who paid, him who paid, Dad who paid.

“I hate you.”

The words burst out of him, as he stood there reeling under the realizations.

Mitch had told him to use emotion, but he hadn’t even known this emotion was there, hiding under everything else, he kept pushing it down deep. Because Mom had died and come back _for him_ … But Mitch was right, for Mom, it hadn’t been about him.

“You lied to me. I was a kid!” She had, he remembered now ,dimly. Those days he would stay with one of Mom’s friends and she’d tell him it was their secret, because she was doing something for Daddy’s birthday...   
Even then she left him, even then he wasn’t the most important.

Mary turned away from him again. But he can see the pretense now, the way her shoulders are tight and high.

“You promised you'd keep me safe?” He demanded.

“You made a deal with Azazel.  
Yeah, it saved Dad's life, but I'll tell you something else that happened.  
Because on November 2nd, 1983, old Yellow Eyes came waltzing in to Sammy's room. Because of _your_ deal.”

In the living room the baby cooed softly as if responding to his name.  
His mother turned abruptly, walked past him, and into the living room.

Dean followed.

“You left us.  
_Alone_.”

His mother stared down at the baby.

“'Cause Dad was just a shell.  
His perfect wife? Gone!  
Our perfect Mom.  
The _perfect_ family... was gone!” His voice broke as the emotions came flooding out.

He stared down at Sam, the only one he’d ever really had since Mom died. And he let himself be mad, let himself be hurt, and wounded.

“And I... I had to be... more than just a brother.  
I had to be a father, and I had to be a mother. To keep him safe.” He pointed at Sam speculatively.  
His life’s mission, take care of your brother. While no one took care of him.

He’d deserved more.

“And that wasn't _fair_.”

Sammy had deserved so much more than what he’d been able to give.

“And I couldn't do it.” He admitted brokenly. How many times had he failed Sam over the years? But somehow Sam always forgave him.

“And you wanna know what that was like?”  
He walked around the crib to stand in front of his mother, trying to make her face him, and what she’d done to them, but she turned her face away.

“They killed the girl that he loved.” A girl that looked so much like his mother it had been like a punch in the chest the first time he saw Jess.

“He got possessed by Lucifer.  
They tortured him in Hell. And he lost his soul… _His soul!_ …All because of you.” Dean swallowed past the raw emotion.

“…All of it was because of you.”

And if Sam didn’t come back, if the British Men of Letters shot him, if his brains ended up splattered on that wall, if he died… that would be because of his Mother too.”

“I hate you.” His voice broke and tears leaked down his cheeks.

“I hate you…” But that wasn’t all. If it was, this would hurt less.

“And I love you.” He admitted

'Cause I can't – I can't help it.” He stumbled over the awful truth, because that was the appalling bit, he could set out all the things she’d done and the cost to him and Sam… but he still loved her.

“You're my Mom…” he defended her and himself.  
“And I understand...” He bit his lip, and thought of every horrible thing he’d done so he wouldn’t lose Sam too, “'cause I’ve made deals to save the ones I love… More than once.” And he could admit it now, that it hadn’t always been about Sam, what was best for Sam.

His mother continued to look away from him. Through his tears he gazed down at baby Sammy again, and thought about what Mitch had told him.

_Find a way to forgive._

“I forgive you.” He told her simply. And huffed a breath of wonder, through the tears.

“I forgive you. For all of it- Everything.” It was true, he could, despite everything. He _could_ forgive her.

“On the other side of this, we can start over, okay?  
You, me, Sam.  
We can get it right this time.” He vowed.

  
“But I need you to fight.  
Right now, I need you to fight.  
I need you – I need you to look at me, Mom.  
I need you to really look at me and _see_ _me_.  
Mom, I need you to **_see me!”_** He was out of words. So sure this was the end, that his best wasn’t good enough. Again.

_“Please_?”

At the word, Mary blinked and haltingly turned, a tear ran down her cheek as she looked up at him. She looked at him, eyes searching his face, her eyes wide in true recognition.

“Dean?” She asked softly.

“Mom!”

Behind them at the kitchen table the boy vanished.


	106. Angry King

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 106: Angry King**

Twenty minutes into the drive, Crowley broke through the uncomfortable silence filling the car.

“Care to tell me where we’re headed, Darling?”

The woman in the driver’s seat breathed a sigh. “Crowley, I’m not your Darling, and I do have a name. Would it cause you some great emotional trauma to use it?” She asked, not looking away from the road.

Apparently, the tiny threat he’d directed at her offspring, a simple reminder of their deal, to keep the Winchester’s in the dark; nullified any fellow feeling he’d managed to generate with her miraculous healing.

“Nothing causes me emotional trauma, Pet.” He scoffed. “Besides ma Cherie, half of your name does mean Darling. Michele Cherie, Godly Darling.” He chuckled to himself, “I have to hand it to the big man, he really does pick one’s with ironic names. Not that g-o-d actually was a big man you understand, his most recent meat suit was shorter than I am.”

  
“The irony of names, Crowley? The names your mother gave you means Angry King.  
As for Crowley…. Did you ever meet a man called Aleister Crowley in your travels, some said he was called the evilest man alive, but also credited him with saying that the problem with mystical systems was that they had no place for humor. It was invariably at other’s expense apparently. I know someone like that. Witty but cutting.  
You didn’t always wear a literary agent out of New York, did you?  
Have you ever heard that song by Ozzy Osbourne?  
Or spent time with another gentleman, by the name of Terry Pratchett?  
Have you ever sauntered vaguely downwards Crowley?  
It’s a really funny thing, how Pratchett’s literary agent was _also_ a man by the name of Fergus, such a funny coincidence.” She smiled at him bitingly. “Carver Edlund’s books were written after Good Omens was published, so people assume … But see, it’s really a game of which came first, isn’t it, Crowley?”

He smirked at her to hide his surprise, “Well, aren’t we just a curious, clever kitten.”

“You’re the demon who’s threatening my family, of course I researched!”

The ousted King of Hell eyed his pet prophet indulgently. She really was quite fun; no wonder young Samantha was so taken with her.  
And then there was Dean. Squirrel was a hard mark; Crowley had been working on him for years. All the things he’d done for him, all the things they’d shared, and still Dean kept his guard up.  
But he could see it, with just a tiny smidge of work Dean could be eating out of the palm of her hand. Crowley felt a little resentment over that, of course he did.  
But a man (or demon) could resent that he wasn’t able to sing as sweetly as a songbird, or he could put it in a cage so it would sing at his pleasure.  
Her writing was one thing, but to watching her burrow under the elder Winchester’s armour in person, that had been scrumptious!  
…If his crossroads staff had an ounce of the leading and guiding, she showed in that phone-call… Well, it would keep the home fires burning.

“Your devotion is rather touching. Though you know, I’m not the only one with a name set in song.”

He cleared his throat.

“Michelle, ma belle.  
These are words that go together well.  
My Michelle.  
Michelle, ma belle  
Sont les mots qui vont tres bien ensemble.  
Tres bien ensemble.” He sang the words of the Beetles song mockingly at her, and watched with delight as her cheeks flushed, apparently Dean wasn’t the only one with the ability to make her blush.

“I hate that song.” She muttered sullenly, without looking at him, “a boy at school used to sing it at me all the time, to tease me.”

“Maybe he had a crush.” He suggested. “I think you know by now,  
I'll get to you somehow.”  
He continued, speaking the words from the song gruffly.  
“Until I do, I'm telling you,  
so you'll understand…”

He reached across suddenly, and pinned her hand to the steering wheel, and bellowed, “We need to find that bloody Nephilim!” Right next to her ear.  
She jumped and squeaked in fear. Would have swerved the vehicle if he hadn’t stayed their course.

After a moment of silence, he took his hand away.

“Jack,” she said through clenched teeth, trying not to show her fear. But her breathing, and the blood pounding away affrettando in her carotid artery, gave her away.  
“Kelly has named her child Jack. Which means God is gracious, by the way.”

“You’ve been holding out on me. Naughty, naughty kitten.” He purred, “Might I remind you, you have four children, that’s a sum total of 80 digits I could carve off the little darlings.”

He watched her gulp and look back at the nipper in the back seat, eyes wide in worry.

“I haven’t been holding out on you, I haven’t finished writing the chapter! Here. It’s the most recent word document. If you’re so clever, you figure out where they are. I can’t.”  
She grabbed up her phone and tossed it in his lap.

He opened the word document and read through what was written.

“Feathers has grown attached, that’s hardly advisable.” He muttered mildly once he’d finished.

She really should know better than to just hand her phone over to people.  
He made note of her account details, added some songs to her favourite songs folder, fiddled with a some of the phones settings, and programmed his number into her phone.

“Either way, if the child is born, that woman is going to die.”

“Kelly.” She pouted at him, “Her name is Kelly Kline, not that woman. She is Jack Kline’s Mother. And she’s choosing to die for her son. ‘No greater love has a person than this, that they lay down their life’…”

“Yes, yes, insert biblical reference here. Blah, blah blah.” He replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“God is love Crowley, that’s what you don’t understand.” She argued in another useless attempt at proselytising him.

He wondered if she thought she was earning brownie points, or whether she was just that indoctrinated.

“It says in the bible that everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. That perfect love drives out fear, that’s why Kelly is okay with dying, because she loves her son.”

He sighed long sufferingly and began reading through her text messages, considered sending out a few, while pointedly ignored her little sermon.

“…And yes, Castiel is growing to love Kelly too, of course he is. You’ve called him the Winchester’s love slave, you might mean it in a derogatory way, but it’s true, he does love Sam and Dean. It was because he loved them that he chose to go against the rule of heaven, his whole family, and do the things that God actually approved of. That’s why God kept bringing him back.”

“So, you think God is going to bring Kelly Kline back?” He asked.

“No…and I don’t think God will bring me back either, if you’re wondering.”

The corners of her mouth pulled in and her lips bowed in a vulnerable curve.

“I’ve always sort of felt like I was living on borrowed time, that I had to make every day count.  
Guess that came from a bunch of angels infecting me with something that makes normal people explode, when I was a baby, huh?”

He rolled his eyes in reply, he’d made a prophet explode too, it wasn’t that impressive. Maybe he ought to remind her of that. But no, mustn’t frighten the songbird, too much, he needed her to sing for him.

“I’m on a slow burning fuse; as you said, what you did won’t last. But I have today.” She continued and smiled at him winsomely, “and if you really can’t take it back, then I’m going to use it the best way I know how.” She flicked on her turn signal and piloted the vehicle off the road into a carpark.  
Parked, then got out.

Crowley followed suit.  
He looked around and realised they were at a small playground close to the ocean.

“This is the best way you know how?” He asked incredulously. “The psychopath that took my throne wants that child. Jack. Believe me, if you thought Dagon was bad. He’s a million times, a trillion times worse! Surely, you can’t really be this stupid?!”

“Crowley, you read the chapter, that’s what I have. Unless you can somehow search for a room with an apple tree painted on the wall… none of my visions had any details that get us any closer.” He noted the ‘us’ with satisfaction. “If the plastic bag had had a store logo maybe... But it didn’t.”

Now to introduce some doubt.

“You seem to think Castiel is trustworthy. Might I remind you of what he did when he sucked up all those souls from purgatory. He might have cured a few lepers, but he broke ol’ Moosey’s wall to do it and believe me that wasn’t pretty or loving.  
Cassie boy also decided he was the new God, remember? He’s massacred more angels and humans than I ever have!”

The little prophet looked pained but didn’t argue.

“You talk about him loving Kelly and the Winchester’s. But he’s willing to sacrifice Kelly’s life, he betrayed the boys trust. Stole the Colt, went after Kelly alone, things that were short sighted, stupid!  
Why won’t he even consider syphoning off the Nephilim’s grace? Can you be sure he isn’t just after power, again?  
Castiel took off with Kelly, and just left Moose and Squirrel lying in the dirt, unprotected, without so much as a backward glance. Practically gift-wrapped them and offered them up on a plate to anything that wants them out of the picture. Believe me that’s a long list!  
Doesn’t any of that indicate that some of the angel’s motives are a trifle mixed? Or that a few of his marbles are a loose. Maybe that Sparkles isn’t the best responsible adult to raise the kind of child that can destroy the effing universe!” He tossed her phone back into her hands in disgust.

Michele unstrapped her own child and led it to the playground, followed behind it as it climbed up the steps of a piece of play equipment shaped like a pirate ship. She pointedly ignored his arguments.

“It’s pirate Chris,” she enthused sounding brittle, “off to sail the seven seas, in search of riches and adventure!”

  
The child chortled with excitement.

Crowley watched, hands in pockets and glared at the  
Felt a mounting frustration as mother and child played a make-believe game of pirate adventures.

duo.

Hadn’t she heard any of his arguments?

Finally, the boy left off the game, climbed down off the ship and dashed towards where he was stood.

It burbled some sort of incomprehensible inquiry at him.

The woman caught her son’s hand and pulled him back. “No Chris, uhhh, Captain Scarface Claw doesn’t want to play just now… He believes Captains need to be stern and imposing.” The child pouted up at him and wrinkled its nose, just like its mother was wont to do when vexed.

“Garr ‘ace ‘aww ayyy! Garr ‘ace ‘aww ‘addd!”

The prophet sighed and tilted her head, studying him.

“Maybe he is kind of sad.” she murmured, “I don’t know if he has ever had a chance to play.”

“Ohhhh, I play!” He sneered at her. “Only last night I shot up with some excellent red, had a ménage à trois with a matched set of redheads, sampled the best food, drink, and drugs this god forsaken, backwoods, blip of an island has to offer.”

He hoped to shock her, and shut her up, but she simply tilted her head to one side and sighed in a way that said she was unconvinced by his list of shenanigans.

“I play!” He flared again defensively.

“But it doesn’t make you happy.  
I was with you on your throne, Crowley. I looked out at the sea of your subjects with you, none of it even gave you satisfaction. You’re just going through the motions. The worst kind of liar is the one that lies to himself.”

“I’m a demon you little twit, I’m not supposed to be happy!” He snarled in annoyance, “you want to talk about liars? You’re soo against killing babies? Then why did you work at that hospital laboratory, doing the testing that allowed all those women to do just that, hmmm kitten?”

Her stunned green eyes met his for one shocked moment before she swooped her infant up into her arms and turned away from him burying her face in the child’s curly mop as if to block out his accusations.

That shut her up.

“I research too Pet.” He purred stepping closer. “Mummy is an accessory to infanticide Moppet.” He taunted. “The blood of all those babies on her hands…”

He waited a moment, let it hang in the air for long enough for her habitual guilt to really sink it’s claws in.

Keep her off balance, twist the knife, then offer sympathy.

He reached out and laid a hand on her back. She flinched away from him, shrugging it off, but he placed it back again, holding her still with a thread of power.

“You didn’t really know what you were doing, did you?” He asked in a softer, understanding tone, “you were young.  
But, sometimes Michele…” He stroked his hand over her hair and down her back soothingly, offering her the façade of kindness and understanding, an absolution she wouldn’t willingly give herself, “…sometimes a child needs to die, ma Cherie. We are talking about saving the world, your own children included, you need to see that.”

He felt her shoulders slump.

Yes, he rejoiced silently, progress, finally.

“But maybe there is a way…” he mused, sounding like he was only just now considering it.

“I still have money, resources, maybe there is a way that neither Kelly Kline nor the child have to die…. How about we go with Moose and Squirrel’s plan? Add in a bit of surgery in a nice quiet clinic in China, we can pop Mz Kline open, and siphon off the child’s grace enough to defuse the little A-bomb before birth.  
Maybe we can save Kelly.” He rubbed his chin and made a show of pondering it.

“I may have been ousted from my throne, but I still have power and influence. I know the enemy, who better to help protect wee baby Jack from the scurrilous villains of the world. With Castiel’s help, of course… We can balance out each other’s excesses, we’ve worked together before, as you are no doubt aware.  
And if perchance the mother doesn’t make it ~ despite our best efforts… Well… The child likes and trusts you… you’re a good mother.  
I heard it myself, when you were on the phone to Dean... Who better to teach it humanity and goodness, to show a mother’s care? With the resources I have to smooth the way …what’s another child, when you already have four, am I right?”

He turned her around to face him, the tyke clutched in her arms between them. He ran the back of his hand down her cheek, looked down into her green eyes giving her his most earnest smile.

“If you help, if we all work together… maybe we can save Kelly, save her child. Please ma Cherie.”

She shuddered under his hands and he thought he had convinced her to capitulate.

Instead, her head jerked back, and gold light flooded her eyes, then she collapsed limply into his grip.

“Bollocks!” He muttered catching mother and child, watched as blood started running down her face.

“Left holding the baby again, eh Moppet?”

He lifted both mother and child into his arms awkwardly, he made his way over to a nearby picnic table.

“This time I came prepared.” He announced, laying out the mother and drew a lollipop and the story book out of his coat pockets.

“Want some candy little boy?” he chuckled amused at the irony of it, unwrapped the sweet and handed it to the child.

Smeared his fingers through the blood on it’s mother’s face, then sucked them clean with a satisfied smack of his lips.

“What Mummy doesn’t know won’t hurt her, eh Moppet?” He chuckled, in delight.  
“Now…” he breathed a long breath of pleasure as the blood worked it’s way through his senses, “I myself am quite fond of the one called, ‘Slinky Malinki Opens the Door.’” He informed the child.  
“If you imagine Slinky and Stickybeak Sid as the brothers Winchester, you can envision it as a tale of their childhood abandonment at the hands of John Winchester.”

The demon began reading the story book.

  
……

Not long after, the prophet gasped for breath and scrambled to sit up, pushing hair out of her face and smearing blood around with her palms.

He tossed her another of his handkerchiefs without looking up from the book, didn’t paused his reading, gave her time to clean up and collect herself.

Closing the book, he eyed her critically.  
“Couldn’t even wait a day, to start undoing my hard work eh, Poppet.” He tutted.

One corner of her mouth twitched as she crumpled his handkerchief in her hands and nodded fractionally.  
He took the handkerchief back and stuffed it into a pocket - for later.

  
For a moment she looked like she was going to argue the confiscation, then shook her head abortedly and sighed.

“You gave him a lollipop and read him a story?”

He shrugged. “Don’t all bad men offer wee unsupervised children sweeties?” He grinned at her widely. “Besides, reading aloud to a child increases their language acquisition and brain development, your doaty wee tike needs all the help it can get.”

She looked at him askance “You’ve got my blood on your teeth.”

He swiped his tongue over his teeth and smiled at her, shrugged his shoulders self-effaceively.

“You weren’t using it.  
I did pay for it you know.  
Now, do tell, what did you see Kitten?”

“It wasn’t Cas, Kelly or Jack.” She answered guardedly, pretty green eyes wary.

He levelled a stern uncle glare. “Maybe Moppet and I could play this little piggy…” he suggested mildly.

At the implication she gathered her child up into her arms and grimaced at him. Hunching her shoulders, she lifted her chin and looked at him, torn and uncertain.

He waited.

“Dean went into his mother’s head. He …” another flash of uncertainty crossed her face, “got her to see him… B-but somehow Ketch, one of the British Men of Letters, was in the bunker. He k-killed Toni Bevell. He and Dean fought.” She shuddered. “I thought Ketch was going to kill him. B-but Mary woke up. She shot Ketch.  
Things… things were kind of choppy.  
Sam, Jody and a group of hunters were attacking the Men of Letters compound… So many people d-died. It’s not like in the movies. It was…” Her lips quivered. “But Sam’s okay….” She breathed, “he must be, the last image I got was Sam, Mary and Dean hugging.”

He smiled encouragingly at the news. “Well, well. So, Dean deprogrammed Mother Winchester. And Samantha and Co. cleaned out the rat’s nest?  
I suppose that means that British harpy, Hess, has taken a reaper ride downstairs.” He chuckled good naturedly.  
“Say what you will, when it comes to tossing a spanner in the works of carefully laid plans, Moose and Squirrel rein supreme.”

The prophet blinked at him, then slipped off the picnic table and began to wander along a path.  
Crowley followed after, noting with distaste that she was heading closer to the ocean, with every step closer to the salt laden water he felt more discomfort.

Of course, that was the point, she was trying to get rid of him. But he was stronger than that, he’d long ago made pain his friend, wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of turning tail.

Ahead the mother and son crossed the sand and made their way down to the water’s edge.

  
The child gabbled away excitedly picking up stones and shells. Michele crouched down beside him, fully engaged, sharing in every discovery, echoing the child’s pleasure and imparting small explanations, about what was found.  
She reacted as if each new piece of ocean trash the child found for her perusal was some kind of marvel.

Through the mounting discomfort brought on by the microscopic crystals of salt hidden in sand. (Salt traces that jabbed away at his demonic senses like broken glass,) Crowley watched the mother and son and felt… envy.

The child was a moron, and clumsy to boot. It wasn’t her favourite, she had three others. The older boy was more attractive and more intelligent, might even border on gifted. Both of the twins were attractive, popular and successful. Meanwhile this child was an argument for eugenics, couldn’t string a comprehensive sentence together or climb steps without supervision. It was a waste of resources. But the woman treated it like it could juggle and sing opera; she never belittled or treated it as though she deemed it less worthy than its siblings.

Crowley snorted in disdain, she was weak and foolish, she valued things that he couldn’t understand.  
The prophet looked over her shoulder at him and smiled encouragingly, gestured him closer.

He took another step, closer to the damp sand and gritted his teeth, watched as she wrote the child’s name in the sand with a stick, then ‘Mummy’ then most incredulous of all.... ‘Crowley.’   
The prophet looked over her shoulder again and grinned, gesturing him nearer again. He shook his head and crossed his arms, couldn’t go any closer, there was too much salt.

“This is why expensive designer suits are no fun.” She laughed at him. “When was the last time you got dirty and didn’t care?”

He scowled at her, and considered reminding her of his play date with Chirone, but found himself unaccountably reluctant to soil the moment of blue sky and fresh air. 

Mother and son began decorating the names with seaweed, shells and stones. He stood and watched them.

The tike picked up something from the very edge of the water gabbling to its mother excitedly. She looked down at whatever it was then over her shoulder at him.

“Yes, okay,” She said softly and tussled a hand through the child’s curls.

The boy walked towards him over the sand while the mother stood where she was, hands on hips, her face speculative.

The tot trundled closer and looked up at him, nose scrunched up.

“Garr ‘ace ‘aww.” It announced imperiously and tugged his hand out of his pocket by his coat sleeve and deposited something into his hand.

He looked down in shock at the thing that sent a spike of agony shooting up his arm, and laid there smoking in the palm of his hand.

…ooo0ooo…

Chris picked up a shell out the tiny wavelets at the edge of the sea and held it up.

“Garr ‘ace ‘aww.” He queried waved a sandy paw up the beach at the stoic demon that stood watching, hands in pockets, impeccably attired in his fancy black suit, eyeballing them disdainfully.  
Crowley obviously thought she and Chris, and their morning at the beach were beneath his notice, an affront to his stylish suit and status.  
But without him she’d probably be at the doctors or hospital right now.  
Crowley had given her this, a day of being the kind mother she wanted to be, on one of the last warm days before winter came.  
It was a chance for Chris to build a memory that he might be able to hold on to, after she was gone. Crowley had given her and Chris more time, days of memories.  
Memories of a mother that loves him, for afterwards. And there was something very sad about that knowing what she did about Crowleys own relationship with his mother.  
Crowley had done a good thing for her and her family, even if he’d gone about it in a very wrong way.

The King of Hell was such a contraindication, one minute he gave Chris a lollipop and read him a story, (he could have done anything, but she woke up to him reading a story?!) The next, he obliquely threatened to cut off her sons’ toes.

Which was the truth and which the lie? Was it all an act?  
She couldn’t help thinking Chris might be right, every so often she caught a glimpse of something…. _Sad_ in the demon’s eyes.  
One of her reviewers had likened him to a stray cat, he kept hanging round seemingly longing for someone to care for him, but if you tried, he was all hissing aggravation and claws. Just like Scarface Claw from the story books. Except Scarface had a home... Crowley didn’t even have Hell anymore.

“ Garr ‘ace ‘aww. ‘ive Garr ‘ace ‘aww.” Chris said again raising the treasure and Michele realised that Chris wanted to give the shell to Crowley as a gift. Her heart clenched at the sweet, simple impulses of her son’s heart.

She looked up the beach again. If Crowley hadn’t done anything awful while she was out to it, Chris should be safe.

“Yes, okay.” She tussled Chris’s curly mop and watched her son approach, tug Crowley’s hand and deposit his gift.

Crowley yelped and grimaced and then steam started pouring from his hand.

“Shit!” She was up the beach and between the motionless demon and her son in an instant.

Swiped the shell out of Crowley’s hand and picked up Chris in one motion, dragged the demon back to the playground and held his hand under the water fountain, and scrubbed at his palm.

“How could I forget that salt hurts you!  
Hell Crowley! I’m so sorry. Are you all right?

Stupid, so stupid, I should have thought!” She bit her lip and stared up at him with welling eyes.

He just stared at her looking shocked.

She examined his palm anxiously, stared down at the unmarked skin, “it hurts you, the real you? What can I do to make it better?”

Crowley stirred and pulled his hand out of her grasp frowning. “It’s fine,” he muttered.

“No, it’s not, why didn’t you say anything.

Salt, saltwater, I shouldn’t brought you to the beach! I’m such an idiot. I should have thought! I would never brought you here if I’d known.”

Crowley looked down at her with his brows beetled. “You wouldn’t?” He asked looking confused.

“No, of course I wouldn’t!” She huffed. “And I definitely wouldn’t have let Chris give you something full of saltwater if I’d thought about it. Seriously, why would anyone do that?”

“I’m a demon,” he muttered.

“Yeah okay, so what? Doesn’t that mean you’ve been tortured enough.”

He didn’t answer, just stared at her like she was speaking Swahili.

Michele sighed. “Come on your majesty, let’s go somewhere else.”

“I didn’t even see it.” He muttered looking bizarrely woeful.

“What? Oh, it was just a seashell Crowley.”

He drew his lips up in a fake smile and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Looked for all the world like a little kid trying to pretend not to be disappointed. It clutched at her heart, seashells weren’t a big part of a demon’s life, she guessed.

“Okay,” she sighed, “you stay here, I’ll be right back.”

She ran back to the beach with Chris on her hip, looked around and picked up Crowley’s shell from where it had fallen.

Walked back to the water fountain and scrubbed it thoroughly. Until she 100% sure it was clean and wouldn’t burn him.

Held it out.

The demon took the shell from her hand, and stared at it a moment, frowning.

Opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Worked his jaw, then slid the shell into his coat pocket silently, with a nod.

Then vanished.


	107. Taking out the pillars

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 107: Taking out the Pillars**

The woman, Doctor Hess, Toni Bevell said she was the key. The others, were mainly just black clad mercenaries, hired cannon fodder.

Hess was one of the British Men of Letters elders, one of the pillars of the organisation. If they were serious about making the British Men of Letters give up their bid to control America, then she was the one they needed to take out.

According to Toni, Hess had been the one to give the order to liquidate Mick Davies.

Sam had liked Mick.

Toni had warned them all Hess was deadly. But it was hard to repress the instinctive reaction towards a tastefully dressed woman in her late 50’s, one that looked like she could be on her way to church.

She’d killed Jerry before any of them could react.

Snapped his neck like a twig. Elbowed Jody in the face.

And now she was holed up in a locked room doing who knows what.

Walt looked to him, and he nodded in response to the question of whether to blow the door. It was a bizarre thing that small look, the request for permission.

He’d always been John Winchester’s youngest or Dean’s brother.

But here, now, they all looked at him as if he was a leader, even Jody.

It made him sick to his stomach, he’d never wanted to be in charge, to lead.

But that’s what’d led him here.

Giving over his authority, wanting someone bigger to choose his course, because it was easier and sat easier on his conscience.

Sam watched Walt set the explosives to blow the door out of the corner of his eye, while he and Jody watched the hallways, guns drawn.

Elsewhere in the compound the sounds of gunfire had ceased.

He hoped that was a sign that it was the Men of Letters that were dead, not all the other Hunters.

How many of the hunters that he convinced to follow him on this mission were dead?

Roy, Jerry, Sid… Sid who had died before they even got in the building.

They hadn’t seen Ketch yet, Sam hoped one of the other Hunters had killed him. Maybe Ketch was in the room with Hess, he could hear the muffled sounds of two voices coming from within.

“Okay?” Walt asked, he gave another nod.

They all took a few steps back and Walt blew the door.

They surged into the room.

Hess was alone in the room, there were no other exits.

Hess lunged towards a gun.

“Don’t! Don’t.” He barked and the woman aborted, raising her hands, she stepped half a step away from the gun.

“Listen, Dean –“ She began.

“It's Sam.” He felt a small flare of irritation.

‘ _Always the child in the equation.’_ Michele had said, he was the one everyone discounted.  
He gritted his teeth. Not anymore.

“And you must be Hess, I trust.  
You're in charge of this whole operation?  
Or, uh, what's left of it?” He finished disparagingly and gave the woman a cynical humourless smile.

“Sam, you might think it in your best interest to kill me, to end all of this here.”

He hummed in agreement and shrugged one shoulder.

“But shooting me now, severing all ties with the British Men of Letters, at this particular moment, that would be a grievous mistake.”

“I doubt it.” He bit out thinking of all the damage these people had done to his family.

“There are reasons to reconsider.” Hess argued raising her hands further and took a step forward.

“…Things that you don't know.” She picked up a file folder off the desk between them and tossed it across the desk to him, before stepping back once more.

He flipped opened the file, saw a pile of photos.

There was a man in the photos, the same man in all of them he leafed through.

  
A man that should have been dead long ago.  
The date stamp on the photos was only a few days old.

It couldn’t be.

“What are these?” He demanded.

“Lucifer is back.”

Sam sucked a breath of horror at the words and Hess smiled coldly.

“Yes, Sam. All thanks to your good friend Crowley.  
Not that it did him much good.”

Sam found his eyes drawn back to the photos. Flashes of his time in the cage, seemed to clamour and shift just beneath the surface of the glossy prints.  
Those blue eyes and spiked blonde hair, the face of Nick, once all American family man.  
Lucifer had fallen back on the image of his previous vessel more often than not while tormenting him in the cage for a Millenia. 

The face was easy to recognise even in black and white.

“Crowley's dead.” Hess added scornfully.

Sam looked up again in disbelief.

“And the Devil is out looking for his son, following in its mother's footsteps, tracking her and your friend the angel.”

Sam felt his gorge rise and his heart begin to hammer, he didn’t want to believe this woman, but he did.

It was suddenly very hard to breath.

“If Lucifer gets his hands on that child, they'll be unstoppable.” Hess smirked.  
“You can't face that alone. You need us.”

“Listen to her, boy.” A voice came from the computer monitor suddenly, making him jump.

Crowley had brought Lucifer back? Crowley was dead?  
It didn’t make sense, why would Crowley bring Lucifer back, after everything?  
Was Hess right? Did they need the Men of Letters?

Sam’s head filled with terror and indecision. What would Dean do in his place? He closed his eyes trying to step back from a full-blown panic attack. Took a breath.

‘ _Listen to her, boy’  
_ _boy,  
_ _boy  
_ _Boy._

Dean wouldn’t be standing here listening to Hess.

Even _Michele_ wouldn’t, she’d say you had to look at a person’s actions.

_Boy.  
_ _Boy,  
_ _boy._

“Pass.” He put a bullet through the computer.

“You bastard.” Hess spat and grabbed the gun off the table, lifted it—

Jody reacted quicker than he did, she pulled the trigger. Shot Hess through the temple. Hess’ head punched back against the wall, her body slid down, leaving a trail of blood and brain matter in its wake.

Later, after they had made sure all the British Men of Letters were dead or fled, had stripped everything of value from the facility and sabotaged the rest.

Collected their dead and salted and doused the Men of Letters corpses in gasoline.

Set explosives and a timer.

It occurred to him….

Lucifer had to of been the blonde man, the one Michele had seen with Crowley all those times.

They’d been warned.

And he hadn’t listened.


	108. Pictures worth a thousand words

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 108: Pictures Worth a Thousand Words**

Josephine MacGoff sat in a business class seat of a United Airlines flight and fumed.

It was beyond typical! Hess had sent her off to dispose of some third rate psychic, right before the announcement of the full on strike against the remaining American hunters.

Here she was stuck in a plane flying 35,000 feet above the Pacific Ocean while everyone else from the American task force hogged the glory.

She could hear it now, “you were on the American task force, Jos’ are their hunters as tough as they say?” And she’d stammer and go bright red admitting that she didn’t know, because while she’d put her entire life in Britain on hold to join the American task force. Doctor Hess had sent her on a clean up job to a stupid British Colony while all the _real_ excitement went on.

It wasn’t like she could do anything but follow orders, when Doctor Hess told you to do something you did it. You followed orders, you followed the code and that’s how it was.

Josephine didn’t have to like it, though.

She slid open the envelope and stared at the photo of the psychic that was her target, wondering why the Men of Letters was bothering to liquidate some ex-lab technician, turned psychic in a country the Men of Letters didn’t even have a presence in.

True, things were changing, the old ways of simply observing and recording, occasionally using the local hunter population as a resource to keep supernatural threats at bay, had been challenged. That was why they were finally taking the American situation in hand.

Far too late in Josephine MacGoff’s opinion.

Just like Lady Bevell argued, often and loudly, ‘Those who have the privilege to know, have the duty to act.’ The American situation had been allowed to rot and fester unchecked, and time and time again it had threatened the rest of the known world.

…ooo0ooo…

Crowley ground his teeth and surveyed the small one bedroom flat. The residence Gavin had never returned to because Sam and Dean Winchester had convinced him to travel back in time, board a ship destined to sink, and die. Simply to stop the vengeful spirit of his old girlfriend.

Gavin had always been a moron, he took after his numbskull mother; a tailor’s daughter daft enough to think she was in love with a nothing, nobody from the workhouse.

Love had killed Gavin’s mother on the birthing bed, and Gavin himself on that benighted ship, Crowley had found himself powerless to stop either demise.

He told himself he didn’t care, that his outrage over Gavin’s death was an act, ammunition to hold over the Winchester’s heads. Proof that they weren’t the arbiters of everything good, as they and their little prophet believed.

Why had he come here, to Gavin’s flat, now, after all these months?

Once, Gavin might have listened to him boast of his prowess in manipulation, or heard him vent his frustrations, Gavin would have made those whittering commiserating sounds in response to the things he couldn’t comprehend.

Visiting his mortal, powerless son had always given him a smug feeling of superiority.

But Gavin and his almost bovine acceptance were gone— Off in heaven and beyond Crowley’s reach. Leaving a strange uncomfortable hole in his wake, like when one lost a tooth.

Crowley told himself he didn’t care, and good riddance.

Gavin was off in heaven, endlessly replaying old memories, like all the milk sop imbeciles.

Most likely, Gavin would have found himself summarily separated from the stupid wench he’d gone to all the trouble of dying for. It had been a fools bargain.

_“The former things will not be remembered, nor will they come to mind._

_That's the big picture Crowley. The status quo of Heaven and Hell now… it's just a holding tank, until after that final judgement…"_

Crowley rolled his shoulders and took a breath that hissed between lips still tingling from the taste of the woman’s blood; and tried to shake the prophet’s words from his memory.

He’d come to Gavin’s shoebox of a flat for a break free of the bloody woman’s endless sermonising and sentimentality. Not to stand around thinking about her half baked, uninformed, suppositions. 

Kevin Tran hadn’t spouted religious portents of some final judgement— there was no reason to believe she had any kind of clue, about anything.

He was besieged by sentimental brainwashed idiots, all exploited by the heaven squad into believing in the illusion that doing ‘the right thing’ led to some kind of eternal reward.

Doing the right thing inevitably got you screwed over, you had to look out for number one.

The demon sneered, shoving his hands into his pockets, and encountered the sea shell, then jerked his hand away from it, as if he’d been burned by something worse than salt; the sense memory, of small warm fingers rubbing over the palm of his meat suits hand besieged him uncomfortably.

Crowley strode four steps to the kitchen cabinets and withdrew the bottle of Craig and lead crystal tumbler; they were right where he’d left them, on one of his previous visitations. 

The demon poured himself a generous glass of whiskey and took a long swallow.

Gavin had never touched it, he knew better.

Crowley rolled the liquor around in his mouth, the whiskey had more nuance to it since he’d begun his blood habit again.

On the down side, he was also more aware of the rancid smell that permeated the air, whether it came from the refrigerator or the murky fetid goldfish bowl on the otherwise pristine countertop, he had no desire or urge to investigate.

Gavin had called the fish Fiona, Crowley remembered now; that had been the name of the bint, for whom he threw his life away.

The fish must have starved to death or smothered in its own waste products, was now on its way to becoming an unsavoury low-tide stew of decomposition; there was a satisfaction in that.

A number of house plants adorned the window sills, desiccated to little more than brown skeletons, their fallen leaves were the only disorder in the otherwise shipshape space.

A leaf crunched underfoot as Crowley turn away from the insignificant deaths of pisces and flora, and made his way into Gavin’s bedroom.

He’d never entered the room on his previous visits.

Like all the other spaces, this room was neat and spare.

A colourful patchwork quilt covered the single bed and a mat made of knotted and woven rope took up much of the floor space.

A handful of thick volumes on American and Scottish history sat on the book shelf.

The demon opened the built-in closet and peered into its depths, it contained only the clothes Gavin had arrived in the future wearing, hung beside two cheap, cobalt blue, polyester vests, one with a small name badge affixed; part of the uniform for Gavin’s subsistence job at the gas-n-sip. 

Crowley had found it impossible to understand Gavin’s complacent acceptance of the job, and his living conditions.

Yes, the modern world was a vast improvement on the squalor of 17th Century Scotland. But why had Gavin never desired more? Why had he been so completely without drive to obtain greater power and wealth, after his arrival?

The King of Hell could not fathom it.

Now he never would.

The boy had been the illiterate son of an unsuccessful tailor, but he had attained a high position on the merchant ship; and yet, in the three years since Abaddon transported him to 2014, Gavin hadn’t made a single effort to become anything more.

Crowley turned back towards the bed, stopped and stared.

A matched set of pencil sketches under glass, sat beside the narrow single bed.

With a low growl, the fallen ruler slashed a hand through the air, angrily sweeping the frames to the floor with a surge of power, stomped down, grinding the glass under the heel of his expensive leather shoes.

Minutely detailed in graphite, the plain broad face of a woman stared up at him accusingly from the carnage. Beside it, the portrait of his meat-suit stared back at him, looking unruffled and amused, surrounded as it was by the chaos of shattered glass.

…ooo0ooo…

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and ran a restless hand through his hair; all through cleaning up the bunker and dealing with Toni and Ketch’s bodies and the other, less fresh corpses, he’d kept this moment at arms length; through checking on Dean’s leg, getting cleaned up, and choking down some form of food that he now couldn’t identify in a police a line up, he’d kept himself from thinking about it.

But now, he had the manila folder in hand, inside lurked the photos, the ones he _had_ to show Dean.

He _had_ to tell Dean and Mom _everything_ Hess had said.

But ohhh, he didn’t want to!

Until he told Dean, and saw the knowledge reflected back at him from his brother’s eyes, it wouldn’t be _really real._

Sam followed the sound of voices.

Dean and Mom were in the library. Dean was tidying still, gathering up the ingredients from the Abrogation ritual in that absent minded way he had, as he groused to Mom that scrubbing dried blood off stuff was a pain in the ass.

“Bloods not so bad,” Mom answered easily shaking her head, “motor oil on light colored carpet, that’s worse. John spilled some in our bedroom not long after we got the house. Never could get the stain out. I made your father rearrange the enoire room just to hide it…” Mary turned her head, “Oh - hi Sam.” 

“Hey, Mom, Dean. Uh I need… I uh …”

Dean looked up from the abrogation ritual detritus sharply.

“What’s goin’ on Sam?”

Sam pulled up a chair and let the folder of photographs fall to the table, Mom pulled up another chair and sat down beside him, her eyes suddenly anxious.

“Sam?” She queried softly and reached out a hand to him, but her hand stopped before it made contact and he felt it’s warmth. The distance between them, once again, to wide for her to span.

“H-Hess,” He stammered looking down at the folder, “she, she told me something before she died… s-she said,” he swallowed. “T-that L-Lucifer’s back.”

He opened the Manila folder and picked up a black and white photograph of Lucifer, held it up for Dean to see … stared down fixedly at it as he haltingly told his family what Hess had said.

When he looked up again, Dean met his eyes fleetingly, finally leaving off his gimpy pacing.

“Okay, let me just get this straight. So... we beat the Brits, we kicked their psycho, tea-swilling asses.” Dean held up a hand, accusing the world at large. “And instead of popping champagne and headin' to Vegas, we get _Lucifer_.” Dean leaned heavily on the back of one of the library chairs, and Sam wished with everything he had he could tell Dean he’d just been kidding.

“And you're sure it's him?” Mom asked.

“Yeah. That's his old vessel, too.” Sam looked down at the black and white reproduction in front of him, wondering where that building was, and how far away it was from where he sat now, felt his throat tighten in dread again.

His eyes lingered on the set of those shoulders, and the unblemished face, the spiked hair, the barely glimpsed wedding band on the vessels hand. Wondered numbly why Lucifer’s old vessel wasn’t a burned out husk.  
He remembered all those times he’d brushed Michele off about the blonde man Crowley was holding prisoner, and how passionately she’d insisted it was important, considered telling Dean what he’d worked out. But couldn’t bring himself to admit it in front of their Mom, to say how they should have known this was coming.  
Felt a cold shiver run down his spine like the caress of a knife blade.

“How is that possible?” Mom asked.

Sam shook his head, “Crowley… I guess,” he pressed his fingers into the long healed scar on his palm pushing hard.

“And now _he's_ dead?” Mom questioned.

“Well, that's what Hess said. But Crowley's a freakin' cockroach. I'll believe he's gone when I see the body and burn it.” Dean answered for him, face blank in a way that told Sam his brother was anything but calm.

“We don't need Crowley. We need Rowena.” Sam told them both pulling out his phone. Trying to plot a course of action.

  
Dean didn’t look up.  
“I mean, she's the one who can slam Lucifer back into the Cage.”

“Great. So where is _she_?” Mary Winchester asked looking a little lost.


	109. What Matters(to Demons and fallen angels)

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 109: What matters (to demons and fallen angels)**

Sentiment is weakness, he _despises_ sentiment!

Yet Crowley had found himself taking the sketch Gavin had drawn of his meatsuit, out of its broken frame, had tucked it into his jacket pocket, before torching the flat behind him when he left.

If Moose’s little biographer was to be trusted, his son thought the man he knew as his father, and had buried before coming to 2014; was a worse man than the demon that now replaced him.

Upon first reading, the words had flowed past him without consideration.

He’d been certain they were badly crafted lies. But now… combined with the sketch (for all that he _was_ a hansome devil) Crowley found himself reavaluating.

It was now apparent that Gavin hadn’t hated him in the end.

~ Had actually wanted to say goodbye… it was like a Penrose triangle, too impossible to exist in reality, the sketched out dimensions falling apart when one tried to translate them to life….

The incongruity of it had dogged Crowley relentlessly since leaving his deceased son’s flat.

The fallen King of Hell tried to push away his unwelcome musings to survey the smoky violet-lit interior of the S&M club. Walked towards the bar, looking for a suitable diversionary companion.

Gavin was a moron, what did he know anyway?

Nothing!

He knew next to nothing of who Crowley had once been, as Fergus MacLeod, before and after he sold his soul.

Knew nothing of what he’d done as a new fledged demon in Hell, or after; for and with Lilith, rising through the ranks. Everything he’d done to cement his kingship.

Any sentiment his late son might have felt, was simply the result of how little Gavin knew, and his idiotic tendency to think the best, when un- or mis-informed.

Crowley knew what he was, and what he had been.

He’d been a marginal humanbeing.

Not his fault; life had dealt Fergus Macleod a bad hand.

He’d had flaming red hair, no father and a mother that loathed him. All of which made him the whipping boy for everyone within a hundred-mile radius.

Then, his mother had abandoned him, without a single sodding second glance! While rumours of witchcraft circulated like the plague. He’d ended up in a workhouse, at all of 8 years old.

He’d had the red hair, but it hadn’t been a warm and fuzzy, little orphan Annie story.

Being a boy like that, alone, tainted by rumours of witchcraft ~ Fergus Macleod hadnt survived into adulthood by believing the sun would come out tomorrow.

So, _of course_ , Fergus Macleod, Gavin’s father, had been concerned with proving himself, keeping what he had, extracting what the world owed him and looking out for himself!

It had been a matter of survival.

Fergus had been a failure at long term planning, a drunkard, and an awful role model.

But, was there any wonder he hadn’t cosseted his son?

The little shit had caused Fergus’s wife, Gaveina’s death, by being born.

Gavin was lucky Fergus hadn’t drowned him at birth. Gaveina had been the one good thing to happen to the man.

Now, Crowley could barely remember her. The woman was just a rough sketch of something soft and mostly forgotten.

Hell had stripped away a lot of dross, forged him into something sharper and cleaner. Removed many of Fergus Macleod’s petty flaws, and the damnable red hair.

Of course, Gavin thought Crowley, King of Hell, was an improvement on _that_ failed slice of humanity, a man so full of rancid grief, bravado and foolishness he’d sold his soul (something he admittedly hadn’t believed existed until too late) for the paultry gain of 3 more inches below the belt.

Crowley moved to the bar, and waved a hand at the heavily pierced bartender, requesting the best scotch whiskey the establishment could scare up.

  
As the adrogenous individual poured, he/she eyed his impeccable suit and tie ensemble with a knowing smile, thinking him some kind of boardroom warrior, slumming it with the freaks; considering an exploration of leather studded collars and sadism or submission, before running back home to his trophy wife and 2.4 children.  
She/he wrongly assumed he was out of his depth in such an establishment.

Little did the metal festooned advertisement against leather and tattoos realise, what lurked inside the designer suit and falsely affable meat, or how much pain something like Crowley could inflict and endure.

Every single person in the seedy bondage dungeon was just a pretender by comparison, sheep dressing up and pretending to be wolves. Crowley raised the glass of inferior scotch to his lips with a smirk.

He was a dragon amongst sheep.

...ooo0ooo...

_(‘…Yeah okay, so what? Doesn't that mean you've been tortured enough…’)_

Crowley snarled at his reflection as the prophet’s words echoed through his memory for the hundredth time. He adjusted his shirt cuffs and reached for his jacket. Furious beyond words. 

His dominatrix companion was gone, taking her various whips and implements with her after a busy few hours. He’d worn her out, but he felt more unsatisfied and frustrated than he had before things began.

_(‘A villain is just a victim whose story hasn't been told,’)_

Crowley scowled sullenly, remembering the way Sam’s pet had lifted her chin and shot him a petulant pout as she’d tossed him that trite little quote, her green eyes all wide and shiny.

What did she know? Whittering little house sparrow, with her imbecilic beliefs and tiny weak fluttering hands.

He is the vilian of the piece! And he most certainly isn’t a victim, not any more.

He **_Likes_** pain, it feels like home.

It is home, a taste of his home, Hell –

Pain cuts through that clunky misaligned dullness, legacy of what he is ~ even housed in a meatsuit, (which is a million times better than existing as a disembodied spirit chained to hell, but is still so enragingly incomplete.)

Pain lights up a meatsuits nerve endings, it gel’s things.

The experience of pain is the closest most demons come to feeling anything like alive, (unless they are lucky enough, or high enough up the ranks to get to eat babies.)

Crowley embraces pain, calls it his closest friend. Knows it’s his lot, what he deserves, what he needs.

“… _I’m a demon!”_

_(‘Yeah okay, so what? Doesn't that mean you've been tortured enough?’)_

He smoothed his tie and stared at his reflection in the mirror.

_(‘…salt hurts you, the real you? What can I do to make it better?’)_

The memory of her small concerned fingers smoothing over his stinging palm assaulted him once more.

“Stop it!” He snarled. “Just stop it! Shut up, shut up, shut up!

Can’t _help_ , damn you!” Red flooded the eyes that stared back at him in the mirror.

He’s a demon, not a man!

He lashed out and turned his reflection to a crazy jigsaw of shards.

Today, now, pain and debasement aren’t working how they should, they feel somehow ill fitting, turdry and cheap. A pointless exercise in futility, not the usual focus and sharpener of his rage and intellect.

And the pleasure of leading a human soul to blacken itself further; the aiding and abetting of a human’s heedless wandering deeper into the pit’s embrace. Magnifying humanities cruelty towards and devaluement of others, encouraging the ever-increasing downward spiral, in the persuit of gratification and power… it all seems like an empty victory…

He remembers sitting across from Amara.

_‘Would you? You'd really be happy if everyone... was evil?’_ She had asked.

He remembers a moment of unease looking into the façade of Amara’s eyes.

_((‘I'm a demon… I'm not supposed to be happy!’))_

_‘Well...Actually, now I come to think of it, if everyone was dark and damned, wouldn't be much of a challenge.’_ He’d answered, as a regroup. _‘Watching a human reject the light and embrace depravity... Yes, well, that's where the gratification really is. Never gets old.’_

Except, maybe _it is_ getting old.

What was the point of building the kingdom of Hell when someone else’s arse sat the throne?

_(‘I looked out at the sea of your subjects with you, none of it even gave you satisfaction. You're just going through the motions. The worst kind of liar is the one that lies to himself.’)_

It’s Sam’s little bitch’s fault, she’s ruined this release for him, she’s poisoned him, with her softness, blood and words.

He’s lost his throne, his position, his minions and now he is losing his grip on himself. He can’t let that happen.

He hates this prophet! Loathes her, he tells himself, as he marshals all the considerable passion he can muster. Sets it to the task of scourging his mind of soft touches and undeserved kindness, of questions and doubts.

He wants to cut her to ribbons and bathe in her blood, defile her corpse.

Kill her, break her, then she’ll no longer be a threat.

….no….

Crowley lets a breath escape, hissing between his lips.

Watches the red drain away from his eyes in the kaleidoscope of shattered reflections.

No, he can’t, won’t, he’ll be damned – more damned, if he’ll let something like _feelings_ interfere with his plans, his eventual victory.

He has plans, and for all he hates the weakness and sentiment the prophet unwittingly attempts to infect him with… she matters, he… needs her, for now at least.

Crowley hates someone - _something_ far worse. In comparison she a is minor irritant, a birthday candle overshadowed by to a city block ablaze.

He can’t overthrow Lucifer or retrieve his throne alone.

Dear sweet, _sickening_ little Michele is a necessary unpleasantness, for now…

He doesn’t have the raw power necessary to win alone.

He needs a weapon, one that will work, unlike The Colt.

Hands of God are out.

In hindsight the Michael Lance _would_ have done the trick, (especially if he’d been able to use the Winchester’s to wield it.)

But, of all the bleeding luck! He destroyed the thing in a misguided moment, saving the Winchester’s pet angel from an ugly demise.

If he’d known Lucifer would slip his leash and turn the tables the way he did, he’d have let feathers rot, stolen the lance, and used it the way Michael intended. He’d have stuck Ol’ Scratch with the pointy end.

But alas, what was done was done.

Very few things can kill an archangel, but Crowley’s team of numbskull research idiots agreed on one fact, that a nephilim grows to be more powerful than the angel that spawns it. Kelly Kline’s bouncing baby abomination may be Crowley’s last best hope to rid the world (and his throne) of Lucifer.

Conversely, if Lucifer finds and subverts his spawn, all bets are off. Game over, Crowley has no illusions.

Which leaves him in a race to find the nephilim… His plans have changed somewhat of late.

He didn’t lie to Michele, he doesn’t want it dead anymore, he wants to neutralise it. (Temporarily. What is extracted can be reinstated, he learned that with Castiel.), Save it… raise it, use it, as a weapon against it’s Daddy dearest.

Little Jacky Kline doesn’t appear to be overly well disposed towards demons, if the account of Dagon’s demise was accurate. But it appears to have some sort of attachment to Crowley’s Prophet on a string, as do the Winchester’s. Castiel is a fly in the ointment, but he has a recorded desire to murder wee Michele, Jack Kline’s first ever little friend. Crowley can use that, and he will, when the time is right.

…ooo0ooo…

"We don't need Crowley. We need Rowena." Sam answered Dean’s diatribe about what cockroach Crowley was, drew his phone out of his pocket. "I mean, she's the one who can slam Lucifer back into the Cage."

"Great. So, where is she?" Mary Winchester asked.

“Could be anywhere. Thankfully we’ve got her number and she makes house calls. Rowena’s run afoul of Lucifer a few times herself, she’ll help.” Dean told his mother trying to sound confident, but Sam could see through his brother’s act.

He scrolled through his contacts and found Rowena’s number, held the phone to his ear listening to it ring.

Just when Sam was sure it would just go to answer phone, it picked up.

“Oh, hey, Sammy.” A male voice answered, sly and amused. And _oh god!_ Sam knew that voice, like the sound of his own screams.

Lucifer!

He sucked a breath feeling the familiar conflict of urges.  
Panic! Fight! Flee! Battling against experience’s advice …freeze and endure.  
Fighting only ever made things worse.

“What?” Dean demanded.

Unable to speak, he put the phone on speaker.

“…Oh, if you're looking for Rowena, she is presently indisposed.” Lucifer continued smugly, Sam avoided watching Dean’s reaction. “…Which is a delicate way of saying, I stomped on her face till the white meat showed, and then set her on fire, just in case.”

Sam closed his eyes in horror, stomach lurching.  
“Ahhh, Gingers!” Lucifer breathed, sounding almost fond. “It was messy and... screamy, but it had to be done, Sam,” he chided just like he’d done so many times in the cage.

_(‘You! You Sam, are making me do this… I have to, Sammy, you understand.... You need to learn. Brought this on yourself… You betrayed me… Pops made you **for** **me** … and you are Sooo disappointing... But we are forced to make do…’)_

“I'm about to be a dad,” Lucifer continued. “Can't raise the little nipper from a jail cell now, can I? Speaking of... you know where your little pal Castiel is?”

“Go to hell.” Sam choked the words out past numb lips.

“Ooh! Good one. Witty! I'll use that in the future. All right, well, I'd love to chat with ya, but, ahh, why waste my time, right?” Lucifer simpered slyly.  
“… It's not like you matter.  
I don't need to put on the old Sam suit anymore, do I?”

_(‘No one needs you Sam, you do nothing but destroy the lives of everyone who cares, Mommy, Daddy, Dean’o. The only being in all of creation left who cares or wants you is me Sam-my and you keep managing to screw the pooch on that too. Now let’s try this again...’)_

Sam hunched his shoulders, unaccountably flayed by Lucifer’s sudden easy contempt, as if Sam was just a used paper cup.

“You know, if you think we're just gonna let you walk –“Dean suddenly broke in.

“Oh, hey, Dean!” Lucifer called affably cutting Dean off.  
“I know you fellas are gonna try, you know… whatever.” Lucifer continued dismissively. “…Whatever you're gonna try… But you can't kill me. You've _never_ been able to kill me. And with, uh, witch bitch gone, you can't put me back in the Cage, so like I said... **_you don't matter_**. _Okay?_ Buh-bye. Buh-bye.”

With that taunt Lucifer hungup.

Leaving Sam with a hammering heart and a sick feeling of something like loss coiled in his gut.


	110. Thing get Biblical

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 110: Things get Biblical**

After the phone call with Lucifer, Dean had collected up the things from the Abrogation ritual silently and stalked out; jaw clenched with fury, anger seething in his eyes.

Sam watched him leave nervously, grateful Mom hadn’t tried forestalling or talking to him.

When Dean looked like that, you gave him space.

Sam pulled his laptop towards him across the table, looked down and ran his fingers over the keys while his mind jangled uselessly over Lucifer’s words.

They needed to focus. Lucifer hadn’t found Cas and Kelly yet, there was that.

Cas didn’t know Lucifer was looking for them either of course, wasn’t opening his or Dean’s messages.

But maybe he’d listen to Mom.

“Uhhh Mom, you and Cas were in contact, after the government took us, weren’t you?”

His mother stared at him blankly for a moment, then nodded.

“Cas needs to know Lucifer’s not in the cage, that he’s trying to find Kelly. He’s not opening anything from me or Dean, it’s a long shot…”

“You think he might read what I send?”

He nodded nervously. “Uhh, yeah…”

“On it.” His mother pulled up Dean’s laptop and started typing.

....

“You know, Lucifer's right.” Dean limped back up the steps from the war-room after doing what ever it was he needed to do, to collect himself. “We can't kill him, and we can't slam his ass back in the Cage.”

Sam drew a breath.  
“Yeah. Okay. So… maybe we play for time.  
Find Cas and Kelly, keep 'em moving.

  
"If Lucifer can't find them, he can't hurt them.”

“You think Castiel is gonna go along with that?” Mary asked despondently.

Dean gritted his teeth in response. “Think we'll give him a choice?”

“And the baby?”

“Hopefully, we can still siphon off its grace.” Sam answered, tried to find some hope in how enthusiastic Michele had been over that plan.  
But Michele and her innocent world view seemed like a distant dream, after hearing Lucifers voice. “If not, uh... we'll figure something else out.”

“Yeah, we better.” Dean agreed, something pained and wounded in his green eyes.

“All right, then.” Mom answered and checked her gun. “Kind of always wanted to punch the Devil in the face.” (or murder his unborn child.) “So how do we find them?”

“All right, look, we know Kelly's gonna have that kid soon. Like, really soon. And according to the lore, whenever a Nephilim is born, there are signs. Uh, storms, outbreaks of disease, uh, plague of locusts.”

“Things get Biblical.” Dean added.

“Exactly! That much power coming into the world, whenever and wherever it happens, things get weird.”

“So, we're looking for something...weird?!” Mary asked

“Yeah.” Dean answered with a slightly forced cocky grin. “…Story of our lives.”

…ooo0ooo…

Crowley lurked unseen and watched before making his entrance.

The little prophet was supervising her child at play in the sandpit, all unawares that she was under observation, clueless as ever. Some people were born to be victims.

Finally, stuffing his hands into his pockets and clearing his throat, he ambled into the prophet’s line of sight nonchalantly.

“Hello Darling.”

Her initial response was all prey animal sensing a predator.

She froze, eyes wide and startled.

That didn’t last long however, she jumped to her feet and placed herself between him and the child.

“Crowley,” She breathed his name, nodding nervously. Gathered the boy into her arms, dusted him off and carried him up the front steps.

“We’re out of Whiskey, but I can offer you tea …. Or coffee…” She informed him over her shoulder, like a perfect little hostess; ruffled the child’s hair, shepherded it into the house in front of her and handed it an iPad.

When he moved to follow, she held up a hand. 

“Not a good idea,” She cautioned, “I put the salt lines and warding back up.”

He narrowed his eyes. “So, you’re practicing segregation now?”

“This isn’t some kind of underserved apartheid Crowley. You threatened my kids, you _keep_ threatening them. Now I’ve got more blood in my brain, I can see you were right. It’s foolish letting you in.”

“Maybe I see the error of my ways.”

“Maybe you do, but in either case you’ll understand and respect my boundaries. You aren’t hurt, it’s a nice day. Enjoy the sunshine and fresh air.” She lent against the door and watched him skittishly from the other side of the salt line waiting for his reaction.

“Boundaries eh?” He could breach her salt lines or find another way in if he wanted, it was an old house. But allowing her to feel overconfident would pay better dividends.

The prophet leaned her head back against the open door and nodded. “Boundaries. Every relationship needs them to be healthy.”

“So, we’re in a relationship are we kitten? Scandalous!” He goaded playfully, dropping his voice to a more intimate register.

The play of all that healthy new blood beneath her skin broadcasted her discomfort brilliantly.

“That’s not what I meant, Crowley! Any pattern of interaction between two parties can be defined as a relationship. You’re only here because you want something.”

“You wound me.” He declared, hand to his heart, fixing her with a hurt look.

As expected, she coloured further, caught up by the obligations of being a nice little good girl.

“I didn’t—” She began, then stopped, tilting her head to the side, and looked at him with narrowed green eyes.

  
“You find reasons to play at being wounded!” She accused.

Crowley licked his lips and smiled widely. “Oh Pet! Now you’re just flirting—“

More colour stained her cheeks. Such fun, she was delightfully over-sensitive, and so easy to keep off balance.

“What _would_ hubby say hmmm? I take it Mr Prophet is still all unawares of your extracurricular activities.”

The little hobbit housewife looked away and her shoulders tensed. “Phil doesn’t know I’m a soiled prophet, if that’s what you mean.” She admitted, sliding down the open door to seat herself on the floor just inside the entryway.

“…Or that I’m being stalked by the King of Hell...”

He mirrored her actions, seating himself fastidiously on the garden bench.

“And yet, hubby saw your eyes do their light show.”

“Sam says people block out or make excuses for things they can’t explain.”

Sam, Sam, Sam! Always with the bloody Winchester’s! Crowley gritted his teeth in irritation as she continued.

“…Phil hinted uncomfortably around the edges, but he never came right out and asked…”

“And your response to those hints?”

“I, I fobbed him off.” She admitted, rubbing at her lips uncomfortably, then caught herself and steepled her hands over her knees.

“I _wanted_ to tell him the truth…”

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t contradict her.

“…but it all sounds so crazy, and what proof do I have? Mostly though, I couldn’t get John Winchester out of my head.” She sighed.

“I’m probably going to die…”

“My, aren’t we a pessimistic Poppet, and all this time I had you pegged as an optimist.” 

She shrugged. “John… he lost Mary, and that was terrible… But once he knew what was out there in the dark, it ate him alive.

He uprooted his kids… dragged them all round the country... Started _seeking out_ the bad things, because half an answer is worse than no answer at all.

I’d like to believe Phil wouldn’t be like that… but when I met him… he… kind of was… He was adrift,

the girl’s birth mother, when she cheated, then walked out, it really blindsided him.

After, as a kind of response, he ended up driving round all over, meeting women off of line, partying, and bouncing from one hook up to the next … He dragged the twins with him, like they were luggage. It wasn’t healthy for any of them.” She chewed her bottom lip and pushed her hair back over her shoulder restlessly.

“Don’t get me wrong, people have different reactions to discovering the world isn’t the way they thought, he a good man, I think John Winchester probably was too in his way.

Men just have this tendency, not to think through, or see the consequences of their actions on the kids. Most kids are pretty tough, they can survive a lot of that…” she waved a hand, “inattention, but Johnny, he’s not like other kids… I can’t…” She made a small broken sound in the back of her throat and let her head drop forward into her hands.

Breathed shallow and ragged, balled her hands tight into fists.

Crowley watched her passively, feeling an old curl of resentment in his gut. _That_ , that was how a mother _ought_ to look, at the thought of abandoning her child!

Not how **_she_** had.

_(“Now Fergus, wait here and I’ll be back in a flash, then we can go get you those new shoes that you’ve been harping on about.”)_

After a long moment Michele lifted her chin and stared blankly into space. Her voice took on a shocky, dissociative quality when she continued speaking.

“As things stand Phil thinks this is just some medical thing, dumb luck, like cancer. He’ll be able to grieve and move on, they’ll muddle through and pull together, I think the girls are old enough to have a steadying influence…

But if Phil’s obsessed with chasing or blaming something… supernatural, he’ll forget to focus on the kids. I can’t risk that happeni—“

“Go on telling yourself that, Darling.” Crowley cut into the woman’s myth recital.

“Everything said and done, _you’re just scared_ _to tell him!_ Divorce statistics for chronically ill or delusional women… they’re interesting reading Poppet.

He called it quits on the twin’s birth mother didn’t he Pet? Why wouldn’t he do the same with you.”

She blinked at him and frowned like a child asked to do a difficult math equation.

He waited for her to argue, to lie and declare her unending trust in the man she was married to.

He couldn’t wait to throw her own words back in her face. ( _The worst kind of liar is the one that lies to themselves.)_

Instead she sighed wearily. “You forgot to add in the divorce statistics of parents of autistic children, Crowley. If numbers never lie, I’m kinda screwed, I guess… and yet…” she smiled ruefully and shook her head.

“Is this the part where you urge me to leave him before he leaves me?

Do unto others, before they do you, is that it?”

He remained silent and waited.

“Have you ever heard the allegory about heaven, hell and the banquet table?” She asked, “I think there’s a couple of versions. Anyway, in both heaven and hell it’s the same setup. People, a feast, and the same catch. The people can’t bend their arms to feed themselves. The people in Hell starve and are miserable. The people in heaven simply feed each other.”

“That’s a stupid story, the dead don’t need to eat!”

“And so, he misses the point.” She sighed and rolled her eyes at him. “My point is if _all_ you care about is yourself, serving yourself, protecting yourself… you create Hell _wherever_ you are. Not caring about anyone, or throwing away the people you care about, who care about you, because they _might_ not _always_ care for you… Deciding it will hurt less if you hurt them first. That’s…. That’s Hell logic Crowley.

To love is a risk, an act of faith, if you believe the best of people, reach out and treat them right, most of the time they live up to it.”

“You live in a dream, little girl!”

“While _you_ live in Hell, Crowley… _or you did..._ ”

He crossed his arms sulkily and glared at her from his side of the salt-line. “Besides, heaven isn’t like that. Remember, all the good little boys and girls are locked up by themselves. _Getting their jollies all on their own_ , all rather masturbatory if you ask me.”

Just then Michele’s cell phone began to play the song, “Bad Liar,” by the American pop rock band, Imagine Dragons; she looked around for the source of the music, confused.

“Speak of the devil.” He informed her.

She just frowned in puzzlement, still trying to find the source of the music. “Answer your bloody phone,” he ordered impatiently, “hubby’s calling.”

After a flash of surprise, she answered the phone. Got to her feet and walked away from him deeper into the house, as she spoke to her husband.

She needn’t have bothered, he could still hear her half of the conversation, it wasn’t very interesting and definitely not worth hiding.

When she returned she was carrying two mugs.

“Witty but cutting.” She muttered. Her eyes never left him as she lent over and set one of the steaming mugs down on the doorstep outside the salt line.

There was a renewed edge of mistrust in her gaze.

“Tea, with honey.” She gestured at the mug dismissively, then backed away and sat down facing him through the open doorway.

“What did you do to my ringtones?”

“Why accuse _me_?”

Her lips twisted, “Because you did it! Now how do I undo it?!…” She demanded tersely. “…Look Legs by ZZ Top for Vic was _kind of_ funny… I’ll give you that.

But _That_ song for Phil… “look me in the eyes tell me what you see? Perfect paradise tearing at the seams? Terrors don’t prey on innocent victims? That isn’t funny Crowley, it’s just cruel. I know you’re a demon, but I didn’t think you were _petty.”_

Was it petty? the demon found himself asking, as he walked forward to retrieve the mug of tea she had set out.

He met her gaze as he lifted the mug to his lips and swallowed.

“You’re too trusting, I was doing you a favour, really; pointing that out. Besides I think the song fits him, you are just far too sensitive.” He smirked unrepentantly at her from under lowered eyelashes and sipped the tea again.

“Install some passwords Pet. Now, how is the love of your life. He’s well I trust?”

Michele’s body tensed then jolted, her head thudded back against the wooden door and gold light filled her eyes.

….

Her shirt was a bloody mess, quite literally and Crowley couldn’t take his eyes off it.  
Red so red, his mouth felt parched, despite the refreshment his Prophet had provided in its intriguingly motiffed mug (had she purchased the mug with him in mind?) 

He felt like a man lost in the desert for days staring at a glass of water.

Just out of bleeding reach.

When she stirred, he was barely aware of anything but all that blood and how badly he wanted a hit of it.

“The man was Lucifer?!” She hissed.

He blinked at her as she climbed to her feet, stormed down her front steps and slapped him.

Reciprocation was an instinctive knee jerk reaction, but his balled fist slammed to a stop, without reaching its target.

He looked down into gold lit eyes, in a face that was subtly changed.

“If that had landed you would have killed her Crowley.  
I’ve put up with a lot from you in the name of free will, but not that. Are we clear?”

“You!”

“Me.” The uninflected voice agreed mildly. “You may be one of my guilty pleasures, Crowley. But seriously _“Do not put The LORD your God to test.”_

The demon swallowed; he could hardly claim surprise.

“She hit me first.” He muttered sullenly.

“She has a bit of a temper when it comes to the people she cares about, you _were_ pushing her buttons, and then…” The prophet’s hijacker, the Deity formerly known as Chuck, waved a borrowed hand airily.  
“Michele _really_ doesn’t like how distressed Sam was, after learning about what you did.  
Are you going to argue you didn’t earn that slap?  
Sam, Dean and Castiel they were being responsible, cleaning up their messes. You interfered. And now there’s a bigger mess. You are really pushing the ‘all things work together for good’ clause Crowley.  
I do know why you did it.  
I know _every_ excuse you have for what you did.  
Now, you’re hiding from the ramifications of your actions. We’ve all done it. But the time for that is over.  
There is something offered to you here. If you make me spell it out, it won’t be anymore.  
So I suggest you work out what you want. And get on with it.”

…ooo0ooo…

“Hey, listen to this – two-headed calf was born in Lava Hot Springs, Idaho. That's weird.” Dean mused handing his brother the iPad.

“That is weird.” Mary agreed.

Sam scanned the article. “Yeah, but not _our_ kind of weird. Look, whatever this thing is gonna be, it – it's gonna be big and bad–“

“You rang?” Sam’s head snapped around at the voice, fear hammering in his chest. But instead of what he expected. There sat Crowley grinning smugly at them.

“Hello, boys.”

Dean, never one to freeze, stepped forward and punched Crowley in the jaw, spilling the demon and the chair he’d been seated on to the floor. He lunged forward and held the demon knife to Crowley’s throat. “Did you do it? Did you let Lucifer out?!” Dean hissed in fury.

“I didn't ‘let’ –“Crowley fumed.

“Don't!” Dean snarled stopping the demon from rising.

“Moose, a little help here!” Crowley appealed shooting a look at Sam.

“Dean, wait.”

“Seriously?” Dean and their mother flared together. Crowley shot him a smile.

“Look… just don't kill him. He worked the Cage spell with Rowena. Maybe he can help us.”

“And what if he can't?” Mom quizzed.

“Well, then we kill him.” Sam answered his mother carelessly and watched Crowley’s smug smile fall.

Dean shoved the demon once and stepped back.

Crowley climbed to his feet, righted the chair and straightened his jacket resentfully. “Cage spell? Thought you had mother for that.”

“Rowena's dead.” Dean informed Crowley shortly.

“Really?” The demon asked cynically, doubt written large on his face.

“Yeah… really….

…Lucifer.” Sam answered less briskly, saw belief take hold, and a flash of something like pain on Crowley’s face, something open and vulnerable.

Then, in a blink the expression was gone, submerged so completely Sam questioned if he’d imagined it.

“Funny. I always thought I'd be the one to kill her.”

“Crowley... ?” Sam asked, and crossed his arms defensively, “why did you do it? Save Lucifer– What did you want?”

Again, that very un-Crowley-like expression made a fleeting appearance.

“I wanted to win.  
I perverted mother's spell, put Lucifer in a vessel of my own making. Because I wanted to win.

  
Do you have any idea how many people have made a play for my throne over the years? Lucifer, Abaddon, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Too damn many!” His anger seemed to drain away as he finished the sentence.

“I thought if I could put the Devil on a leash...” Crowley sighed, “my own personal nuke, no one would ever dare challenge me again.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah. That worked out great.”

“All ended with me, narrowly escaping death by hiding in a rat.”

“Wait. In an... actual rat?” Their mother asked in surprise.

“Wasn't too bad, really.” Crowley answered almost wistfully. “Gave me time to think….

You know, I've been focused for so long on keeping my job. Never realized I hate it. All those whining demons, the endless moan of damned souls, the paperwork! I mean, who wants that?”

“Uh…You.” Sam answered in surprise. Crowley just didn’t seem right, it reminded Sam of how he’d been, in the church with the demon cure taking hold.

Crowley dropped his eyes. “Unh-unh. Once, maybe…”

Sam frowned. “So why are you here?”

“Well, whenever there's a world-ending crisis at hand, I know where to place my bets.” It's on you. You big, beautiful, lumbering piles of flannel.” Crowley smiled ingratiatingly.  
So, if you'll forgive my transgression, I'll make it worth your while….?”

“Which means?” Dean asked mistrustfully.

“After we put Lucifer back in his cage– together– I'll seal the gates of Hell. You'll never see another demon again. Apart from—of course, yours truly.”

“You would do that?” Mary asked disbelievingly.

“Why not? They stab me in the back, I'll happily stab them in the front, the sides, and right up their little black-eyed asses.”  
“So...” Crowley asked with some of his usual swagger and a lopsided smile. “We have a deal?”


	111. Feelings

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 111: Feelings!**

Michele stacked another wooden block half heartedly on top of the tower she and her son were building and stared into space.  
Physically she felt better than she had for months, but she was -troubled- by recent events.  
Crowley’s latest visit felt like a badly edited movie.

One moment she’d been thinking, “oh shit what did I do?” realising that she’d just _lost her mind_ and stormed down her front steps, to slap the King of Hell, like some witless heroine from her teens trashy YA novels.

Then, she’d glimpsed Crowley’s fist coming at her— 

**_And_** **_then_** , she was back inside the house, sitting on the floor with her face wiped clean of blood, and Crowley looking at her like she was a potentially poisonous snake. 

“Gordon Bennett, the prevarication! Free will? That’s a fine piece of fabulation, that is.” The demon had coughed with a cynical bark of laughter, “ahh, exhibit A, do yourself a favour, go read the chapter you wrote about the day we met. Read the whole bleeding story! Then let’s see how you and your hypocritical roomy feel about free will!”

None of it had made any sense, but before she could ask. Crowley was gone.

For all his charm and claims of friendship she was pretty sure Crowley couldn’t stand her, he was a demon, it was just his nature to want to hurt people even if he claimed to need them. It was like the fable of the scorpion and the frog.  
Trusting, listening to him, it could only end badly …

And yet… it was the second time Crowley had mentioned that chapter, the first had been at the blood lab. Later, she’d been so focused his theft of that tube of her blood that she had forgotten everything else.

Now curiosity niggled at her.

….

In the lull between homework and preparing dinner for her family, Michele picked up her phone, second guessing herself even as she did it, she navigated to fanfiction.

…ooo0ooo…

Moose and Squirrel’s hospitality left much to be desired, Crowley brooded resentfully, fingering his jaw. He poked his borrowed tongue at the cut inside of his meat-suit’s cheek. Dean knew how to throw a punch, (unlike a certain prophet,) the taste of sulphur tainted blood filled his mouth.

Close but no cigar. 

Right now, what he wanted was the real thing, or some decent whiskey. Unfortunately, ‘77 Prophet was unavailable, likewise decent whiskey. Even blood bank, cask red, wasn’t something which would garner much approval from his current audience. 

  
Alas, that left— he sauntered over to where Moose and Squirrel kept their gut rot whiskey, stored incongruous in the antique Men of Letters crystal decanter, and poured himself a glass.

The Winchester’s watched him with three sets of mistrustful eyes.

He lifted an empty glass and tilted his head, offering to play host.

Received three matching scowls by way of reply.

Fine, He replaced the glass with a shrug, lifted his own, and took a mouthful, almost spat the god-awful stuff out; But forced himself to swallow, he had manners, unlike some people. 

He’d confessed his transgressions, offered to help put Lucifer back in his box, and shut the bleeding gates of Hell as an act of contrition.

Well maybe, he couldn’t personally follow through on all his promises ~ but a King needs-must delegate, even an exiled one.

He’d make sure the job got done.

He’d picked a side, thrown his lot in with the good guys.

What more did these people want?

So, he allowed them to believe he could shunt Lucifer back into the cage… So what? It was a small half truth, leaving them to believe that all it took was gathering the correct ingredients and knowing the right combination of magical words.If they were smarter, they’d know; perverting mother’s cage spell was a wholly different ball game than performing it to begin with.  
Demon or no, magic didn’t come naturally to him. Not on that level. If it had, perhaps Mother wouldn’t have loathed him so deeply.

( _Could she REALLY be dead, just like that?_ )

He took another mouthful of whiskey to help burn the thoughts away.

He’d chosen his current meat suit as much for its innate magical abilities, as he had for its affable face and other physical attributes.  
But alas, a meat-suit with a predisposition went only so far. He had the knowledge but lacked the juice for magic on the cage spell’s level — without help- he eyed the youngest Winchester weighingly.  
  
Sam Winchester had performed that damnable time travel spell, to send Gavin back to his own time. The Hardy boys might not cognise it, but that was no small pallor trick. Mother hadn’t even blinked, handing it over for Moose to perform. And then there was Ruby, he’d found and read the Supernatural books, (he wasn’t one to pass up an engraved invitation to know his enemy’s weaknesses;) how had Ruby put it, before Dean used her own demon knife to end her? “You didn't need the feather to fly, you had it in you the whole time, Dumbo!”

Surely it would work out.  
It would be a team effort, that was how the good guys worked, wasn’t it?

“I trust you still have the hyperbolic pulse generator.”

Mother Winchester went still.

“…Golden egg-shaped object, yay big, covered in rune-work, pops unruly archangels out of Presidents…” He prompted, watching sideways glances passing between the Winchester’s. “Why am I prophesising,” he snarled the word, with barely presence of mind to enjoy watching Moose and Squirrel flinch, (‘ _bit touchy about the topic of prophecy are we boys? If only you knew,’_ ) “drama in our near future.”

“We don’t have it.” Dean muttered.

“Who does?”

“We— we’re not sure.” Sam stammered, “Cas maybe? He t-told us it went into storage, b-but it isn’t —“

“I — I returned it to the Men of Letters.” Mary Winchester broke in.

“Of course, **_you_** did!”

“Hey! Don’t you start, you slimy sonofabitch, we wouldn’t need the fricking thing if you hadn’t screwed with the plan. Mom was brainwashed. What’s your excuse huh?!” Dean snarled.  
“Brainwashed, was she?”

Mary looked away guiltily.

As he thought, same story as with The Colt.

Amara had brought her back, Mary Winchester, the preverbal bad penny was an agent of The Darkness, antithesis of creation, and destruction trailed behind her.

Bevel was right about one thing, Oedipal myopia indeed!

“I – I returned it to Mick, after they helped us find you boys in Colorado.” She admitted.

“ _Well of course you did.”_ He growled disgustedly, throwing Mary a venomous look.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean bristled.

“Amara brought her back. Amara, the Darkness, the antithesis of creation. Destruction! What did you tell me about Mother, Dean? ‘ _Family doesn’t end in blood, doesn’t start there either. Family’s there, for good and bad, all of it. They’ve got your back, even when it hurts. That’s family.’_ Come now boys, examine Mummy dearest’s track record without the rose-tinted spectacles. Finding a less destructive mother figure is easy, if you open your bleeding eyes.”

Dean looked ready to launch himself across the table on another punchy act of retribution, to defend Mummy’s non-existent honour; but Moose barked his brother’s name, grabbing his arm and shook his head.

( _‘That’s right Squirrel listen to Moose.’)_

He watched an entire argument flow between the Winchester brother’s, shorthanded to a few facial twitches, as Mary sat with mascaraed eyes lowered.

“Mick and Ketch are dead; the pulse generator wasn’t part of the arsenal in The Men of Letters armoury. It could be anywhere.” Sam said finally.

“Well that _could_ prove problematic, I take it we lack the horseman’s rings, and no-one’s keen on Moose taking another swan dive?”

“Crowley goddamnit, sit down and shut the hell up. Or I swear to god I’m gonna do what Lucifer didn’t.”

“Touchy, touchy.” He made a zipping motion over his lips. Sat down, with his arms crossed, and waited.

“Back to plan A,” Sam shot him a look resembling a mouldy lemon, “we find Cas and Kelly, keep them moving, try and drain the Nephilim’s Grace. Figure out some way to deal with Lucifer later…”

Winchester’s, one, two and three turned back to their electronics.

…ooo0ooo…

There had been a lot of moments when Sam had hated Crowley.

When the Colt had failed to kill Lucifer for a start, then when they found that Hex bag hidden inside the phone, after watching helplessly as Sarah choked to death… Again, when Crowley had threatened to kill everyone they’d ever saved, including Jody… When Dean and Cas vanished after killing Dick Roman, and then Crowley turned around and kidnapped Kevin, leaving him with no one … Every time Crowley taunted him about not looking for his brother when he was trapped in Purgatory, for taunted him for his assumption that if Dean wasn’t in Hell, then he had to be in Heaven…

When Crowley talked Dean into taking the mark of Cain, and after they realised what it was doing to him…

When Metatron killed Dean, and he’d tried to summon Crowley, desperate to deal, and the bastard hadn’t come.

… And _especially_ after that phone call where Crowley clued him in that Dean wasn’t just dead, that he’d become a demon, a Knight of Hell, thanks to the mark of Cain.

How he’d hated Crowley for taunting him during that phone call, saying he didn’t care if Dean was a demon, that what he really hated was his brother was with Crowley, having the time of his life. Listening to Crowley wax lyrical about how Dean was _his_ , _his_ bestie, _his_ partner in crime, that Dean completed _him_ … he could have ripped Crowley’s heart out with his teeth.

The animosity ran both ways, Sam knew. Crowley was more than a little obsessed with Dean, given a chance he’d love to turn him into a possession or pet, another Hell hound trained to rip and tear and kill.

He always felt he was in some weird competition with Crowley, maybe it stemmed from his own insecurities, and Crowley’s greedy need to own. But Crowley was always angling to come between him and Dean, to supplant him. He was a demon, an evil backstabbing monster. But Crowley had become an answer to too many of their problems, and Sam couldn’t deny he had come through, for them. (no, for Dean.) Crowley had been there _for_ Dean. Able to _help,_ while Sam was dead weight, a burden, or the cause of more than a few of their nightmares. 

Dean never felt he had to protect Crowley, or sacrifice for Crowley, (because Dad had hammered it into Dean’s psyche.)

Crowley, Like Cas, was someone Dean considered strong enough to be treated as an equal.

Something his brother never seemed to see him as.

And sure, Crowley had let Dean down and used him, he was a demon, you expected that. But, so had he, Sam, his little brother. 

But what Sam hated most about Crowley, was that when he looked at the demon, he saw a manipulative monster. But one that looked like a reflection, of the thing Sam had always feared festered inside of _him_. Right down to that blood addiction and the tendency to demand more from Dean than he was capable of giving.

Sam hated Crowley for his insight, and for how often he right, about things Sam wished weren’t true.

Maybe Crowley was right about Mom.

Amara had said she was giving Dean what he needed most, but Mom kept _HURTING_ Dean.

Crowley was right too, (and it pained him to admit it,) there were other women who had tried to mother Dean and had succeeded far better than their own Mother since her return.

A string of waitresses, motel managers, and the well-meaning mothers of classmates, when they were kids.

Then Ellen, Jody… and even Michele. 

Sam glanced at the Skype icon and looked away guiltily, ached suddenly to call and hear Michele’s voice, to pretend for a few minutes, and let himself be wrapped in her simple caring and kindness.

To watch her fuss over Dean’s hurts in her, bulletproof ‘I’m going to care, and you can’t stop me, so get used to it Dean Winchester,’ way.

Sam lifted his eyes, glancing at Crowley furtively through his bangs.

The demon was staring at him and sipping his drink, with a weirdly thoughtful look on his face.

Sam jerked his eyes away, looked down at his hands on the laptop keyboard again, feeling uncomfortable.

No, the last thing he should do with Crowley round was call Michele. 

Why _was_ Crowley here? Apologising and offering to help, offering to shut the gates of Hell?

He’d seen the demon running scared, bartering and making deals, manipulating to save his own skin, but there was something different; almost defeated, about Crowley now.

He glanced across at his mother where she sat typing away with great concentration, felt guilt swelling in his gut.

The things Crowley had said! And he just sat there and let him… Mom had died because of him, how could he entertain any of Crowley’s poisonous insinuations.

Mom had made mistakes, sure. But, so had he… Cas wouldn’t have felt like he had to say ‘yes’ to Lucifer, if he hadn’t pigheadedly decided he knew best, forced Rowena to remove the mark of Cain from Dean and released the Darkness… 

What mattered now was finding Cas and Kelly and stopping Lucifer.

Sam started searching the internet again looking for any signs of the imminent birth of a Nephilim, his fingers finding the keys almost on autopilot.

…ooo0ooo…

“This what you do when I'm not here— Type?” Crowley asked.

“Yep.” Dean answered without looking up from the iPad he was using. He waited for Crowley to start in on bitching, or attempting to incite more drama, like the drama douche he was.

“Wait a second. I got something.” Sam cut Crowley off, before he got started. “Okay, two hours ago, there was a massive power outage in the Pacific Northwest.”

“Sounds like the right kind of weird.” Mom encouraged.

“Oh, yeah! Wait…”

Dean watched his brother’s face, saw his frown lines deepen, then the side of mouth slowly creep up in satisfaction.

“…. They tracked the outage to an address in … North Cove, Washington, to a house currently being rented by one _James Novak._ ”

Sammy favoured him with one of his, ‘I’m so smart’ looks.

“That's Cas!” Dean banged his fist down on the table. “Let's roll!”

“It's about time.” Crowley grated, and gathered himself to climb to his feet, as if he had every right to join them.

The sonofabitch’s presumption just pissed Dean off.

He swept up the demon knife off the table and brought it down hard, nailing Crowley’s hand to the table with it.

The Demon screamed like a little girl and had the gall to look all hurt and betrayed. Like he wasn’t 100% to blame for the entire Lucifer shitshow.

“Think we're gonna trust you out there after what you pulled? Hmm?” He glared at Crowley, made sure, ‘the king’ understood who was in charge. “No! You stay here, you sit down, and you shut up.” With that they all walked out, leaving Crowley to think about exactly how -not forgiven- he was for letting Lucifer out of his box.

…ooo0ooo…

When Michele heard a knock on the door, she was expecting to open it on someone either holding a clipboard and asking if she was happy with her current power company, or someone in sensible shoes holding a watchtower magazine and asking if she had ever pondered spiritual matters.

Instead she opened the door on a demon, holding his own bleeding hand like it was an item of evidence.

“This is what I get!” Crowley snarled without preamble, shaking his bleeding hand at her.

After a moment of shock, Michele sighed deeply, sucking in a lungful of air that smelled of sulphur and made her throat ache.

“Sit down, I’ll get the first aid kit.” She ordered pointing at the garden bench, then collected the first aid kit and a basin of water from the kitchen.

“It’s just like owning a Tom cat.” She muttered to herself, sitting down next to the demon and adding a capful of disinfectant to the basin of water.

“What?” Crowley asked through clenched teeth.

“You! You disappear off and get into trouble, then come back filthy, and, or bleeding…” Crowley huffed and looked offended by the comparison; but let her take his bleeding hand and peer at it, then immerse it in the basin of disinfectant-water in her lap.

“Do you bloody mind, that hurts!” Crowley hissed, making a token attempt to pull it out again.

She tightened her grip. “Don’t be a sook Crowley. I need to clean it.  
And see.  
So I can work out what you’ve done to yourself.”

“I didn’t do this! Dean Bloody Winchester did it! He pinned my hand to a table with that bleeding demon knife of his.”

She might be focused on his hand, but she could feel him glaring at her, watching her for a reaction.  
She stayed silent.

“I offer to help put Lucifer back in his box and shut the gates of Hell and this is what I get as repayment.”

She felt a beat of surprise but continued cleaning away half clotted and newly flowing blood without comment.

The wound was certainly consistent with a skewering with some kind of large knife.

“When ever one of my kids comes running to me with tales of how someone did something to them… _‘Johnny hit me, Chris pulled my hair, Jennifer went in my room, Victoria called me a bad name.’_ I always ask the same question.” She said, lifting his hand out of the disinfectant and patting it dry with gauze. She’d dealt with her fair share of minor, and not so minor injuries in her years, between various pets, children, and a DIY inclined husband, but never a hand skewered with a demon knife. ~There were a lot of necessary things you could damage inside a hand.

“I need you to move each finger separately, then make a fist, please.”

Grudgingly the King of Hell did as he was asked. “That’s good, okay… I guess the tendons are alright….

Can you feel it when I do this?” She tapped the tip of each of his fingers gently.

“Yes, yes, yes, _yes_ and **_yes._** Stop poking already woman!”

So, the nerves were probably alright too; and that pretty much exhausted her orthopaedic skills.

“You seem okay… apart from the hole through your hand.” Crowley grunted. “I’d feel better if you let me take you to A&E, got it checked out by an actually doctor.” His hand jerked in her grip. “… But, me feeling better isn’t something you care about, obviously…

Anyway… you’ll _probably_ be okay without stitches, I’m going to tack both sides together with steri-strips, cover it with gauze and put a bandage over it, is that okay?”

Crowley didn’t bother to answer, just watched her scowling.

“What question?” He asked finally after a few minutes of silence, just as she finished with the steri-strips and gauze.

She blinked, confused for a moment, before realising which question the King of Hell was referring to.

“Oh, I always ask what they did to the other party, they invariably say ‘nothing,’ but if you give them time to think, they’ll eventually admit that they had some responsibility for what happened.” 

“Of course, _you’d_ say that. Blame the victim.”

“You’re the one that told me everyone’s a victim at some point... Yes, sometimes we catch the heat unfairly.  
But, _come on_ , Dean has justifiable reasons to be angry with you. I don’t approve of…” she nodded down at the injured hand, “…but…”

“I apologised! I offered to help and _still_ he did me like this!”

“So, even if you are sorry… for making all the Winchester’s personal struggles, suffering and sacrifices to put Lucifer back in the cage, pointless—“She couldn’t keep the anger out of her voice.

“I suffered too!” Crowley argued cutting her off.

She continued patching up his hand and didn’t answer.

“I did!” He insisted his face like a sulky child.

“Which makes what you did _less_ understandable. Besides suffering doesn’t make you innocent of your other actions. Did you _really_ expected there to be no consequences, no accountability, just forgiveness? After you misled them like you did? Just because you admitted to doing wrong -after the facts are out in the open, I might add- You can’t expect a few of promises to fix things, Crowley.  
Demons lie, and when they don’t, they use half truths to manipulate. Sam and Dean KNOW that!  
Try denying it.  
You can’t just apologise and make promises and think people will believe you, when you have your kind of history, you can’t! Words are wind. Talk is cheap, but it takes money to buy whiskey....”

“Speaking of whiskey, Lucifer killed Mother.”

“Oh— “Michele breathed in shock, derailed. “Umm, are you okay?” She studied his face sympathetically. Crowley’s relationship with his mother had been complicated and hate wasn’t the opposite of love, it was what caring turned into under a big enough burden of hurt.

“Marvellous! Couldn’t be better, I hated the ginger whore— Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like that!” He waved a hand irritably, “it’s sickening. How can you possibly care?! Mother was a witch remember? The bible you’re so fond of instructs that one shouldn’t suffer a witch to live.”

“Crowley, I don’t want to debate bible verses about witchcraft with you,” she said softly.

The demon smirked and lifted an eyebrow. “Why? Afraid I’ll win Darling?”

Was this all just a game to him?

She stood up abruptly, took two strides and tossed the dirty water from the basin onto the grass. “Is winning all you care about?  
_No matter how you play it YOU can't win the game you’ve begun.”_ The words she couldn’t remember saying, or writing in her fic, came tumbling out of her mouth.

They both flinched, and suddenly Crowley was right behind her, up inside her personal space.

“Don’t you-” He hissed grabbing a fistful of her hair, and using it to force her to face him, looked down at her with furious red flooded eyes.

The powerless little kid in her froze and waited fatalistically for escalation.

Instead the red receded and Crowley’s gaze flicked back and forth between her eyes and her mouth.

He let go of her and backed away a furrow between his brows.

“So, I can assume you caught up on your reading, then?” He asked, as casually, as if he hadn’t just grabbed and hurt her.

Michele blinked, tempted by an urge to tell herself she’d imagined the violence, but for the stinging of her scalp.

“Yes,” she lifted her chin and glared at him, raised a hand to try and rub away the pain. “I read my fic.” She answered shortly, turning away from him abruptly, back to the garden seat and began packing away the first aid supplies, hands shaking.

“And how does it all make you fe-el, Darling? Used and violated, perchance?

As if being forced to write bad fanfiction wasn’t enough, you discover you’ve been a patsy this entire time.” Crowley tisked, and cocked his head to one side, a look of transparently false solicitude on his face.

How did she feel? Michele stared at the demon and let out a shaky breath, blinked her eyes to deny the prick of tears.

“I fe-el … confused and scared and used and— **like** **I asked for it** _and got what I asked for._

Of course, I didn’t know what the hell I was asking for.

‘ _Use me Lord, I want to do your will Lord, I want to save the lost for you Lord Jesus.’_ ” She mimicked mockingly and coughed up a harsh bark of something with no real relation to laughter.

“How do **_you_** feel, Crowley? You’re addicted to human blood again, only standing here because of me, my God and a rat, I bet that feels great too _, your Majesty._ ” She smiled at him cuttingly, and Crowley scowled back.

Then, pain spiked through her head like a railway spike hitting a mains cable.

For a millisecond, Michele thought the pain meant she’d finally pushed Crowley too far; but only until the images and knowledge began to fill up her mind and she felt strong hands grab her shoulders and stop her from falling.


	112. Light and darkness

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 112: Light and Darkness**

Sam sat in the rear seat of the impala, staring at the back of his Mom’s head.

Mom was riding shotgun beside Dean, while he’d been relegated to the back, without consultation, like a child.

Funny how he’d never paid attention to it happening before today, before Crowley’s comments about Mom and Amara, and what Amara was. 

Yin to Chuck’s Yang; the opposite of creation —destruction.

Mom sitting in his seat, riding shotgun beside Dean, it was a small thing, but it bugged him suddenly.  
He blamed Crowley and his words for that; words that circled relentlessly in his head. Like vultures waiting for their prey to die under the desert sun.  
Cowardly and patient, eager and hungry.

He was _glad_ Dean had pinned Crowley to the table.

Glad they’d left the bastard alone in the bunker, with the lights off.

He _was_ glad they’d left Crowley behind, Sam told himself again, as his eyes were drawn to the bright gold of his Mom’s hair, the profile of her face as she settled further into the seat ahead of him, her eyelids drooping.

  
_Was he really glad?_ Or was there part of him, that wanted Crowley there, with them? To be the bad guy, to do the job of mistrusting Mom, so he didn’t have to.

_‘They've got your back, even when it hurts. That's family.'_

He looked away from his Mother and rubbed restlessly at a snag in the fabric of his jeans. What if Crowley was right, what if Mom was some kind of agent of Darkness … a force that opposed life?

Chuck had called him and Dean the firewall between the forces of light and darkness; but since Mom came back, there’s been one stumble after another, and neither he nor Dean can seem to see straight past her.  
Crowley is kinda right about the rose-tinted glasses, there are a pile of betrayals and bad calls piled up at Moms door, and they ignore them, because she’s _Mom_. Things that Dean would have put a bullet in, or at least draw blood for, if it was anyone else.  
Cas nearly died at the lake house, Dean had been furious, threatened to put a bullet in Michele for not warning them … but Mom, she _had_ known.  
She’d stolen the Colt from Ramiel, kept it and given it to the Men of Letters rather than barter it for Cas’s life.  
It was only Crowley, figuring it out and destroying the Michael lance that saved Castiel from an agonising death, rotting from the inside out. Crowley could have taken off, or stolen the Michael lance that day, instead he’d stayed, he’d saved Cas.  
The reason Crowley gave Dean for it later, ‘to spare himself the Winchester Man pain, of them moping about like a bunch of school girls,’ what did that even mean?

Did Crowley care more about their pain than their own Mom?

How screwed up was it to even be asking a question like that?

He and Mom had survived the Alpha Vampires assault on the Men of Letters compound _because of the Colt._

No… the Colt would have been useless without ammo. They survived because of Bobby and Ruby; because Michele had warned him to brush up on the incantation to make the ammo.

_“Ever think that maybe when Amara gave Dean a gift… Chuck gave you one to? Ever stop to think that maybe I'm here to watch your back? Because God cares, because he wants to keep you two brave, self sacrificing, Blaze of Glory, moronic, American lunatics alive?"_

Michele’s words the last time they had talked came back to him.

Suddenly he ached to tell Michele about getting a lead on Cas.

But the thought of talking to Michele with Mom right there, felt wrong. Dangerous. Weirdly so.

Telling Jody about Michele had felt kind of~ embarrassing, but good, he could imagine Jody and Michele sitting sharing coffee, laughing and swapping stories about him and Dean, Alex and Claire, and Michele’s kids. But he couldn’t imagine Michele and Mom in a room together.

And maybe that was why, two gifts, one an agent of Amara, the other an agent of Chuck?

There was a weird kind of balance to that equation. Michele and Mom were about as different as two people could get. The woman who literally couldn’t kill a mouse, and his mother, someone who had dispassionately shot a man who’d been her lover between the eyes.

God, he missed Michele! Somewhere along the way he’d grown accustom to her being there, grown accustomed to the way she encouraged him to talk about stuff. Was that why Dean had suggested he call her before they left the bunker? Because Dean hated talking, but he knew Sam needed to, after hearing Lucifer’s voice, knowing he was at large again.

Michele seemed to have a way of digging stuff out and letting the light in, helping him face and deal with things, instead of just boxing everything up and avoiding it. She didn’t use humour as a shield, or a wall to hide from stuff like Dean did, instead using it as a way of defusing tension, just enough, to make things bearable. Like that awkward talk she’d had with him about that night with Eileen. Or that first day, talking with her on her webcam, hungover and miserable the morning after Mom told them about working for the British Men of Letters.

He remembered telling Michele, what Amara had said, about Mom being the thing Dean needed most.

And how she’d scrunched up her freckled nose and looked at him, with that, ‘you know nothing Jon Snow,’ look on her face and informed him, “I'm pretty sure what Dean Winchester needs most is you Sam...and pie... I mean seriously, if she never mentioned pie how well could she possibly know him?”

He remembered that moment, feeling all the tension drain away, like somehow, she’d lanced, and started healing a festering wound he didn’t know he was carrying.

Maybe that was why Mom sitting in his seat felt so wrong, because he needed to be first with Dean, he needed Michele to be right about Dean needing Him most (and maybe that’s why he wanted Crowley to be right, a minuscule percentage of him anyway.)

He needed Dean’s words in that church to still run true, even now, with Mom here and alive.

_(‘I'm willing to let this bastard and all the sons of bitches that killed mom walk because of you. Don't you dare think that there is anything, past or present, that I would put in front of you! It has never been like that, ever!’)_

It was greedy and it was wrong; just like what he wanted from Michele.

Because he wanted to hear her voice right now, draw courage and comfort from her, to feel like she was something or someone God had given him as a reward for everything he’d sacrificed.

That he mattered, that what he did **_mattered_**.

…ooo0ooo…

Head resting on someone’s lap, body lying somewhere soft, a hand stroking absentmindedly through her hair. For one moment Michele assumed she was with Phil, until she recognised the expensive black cashmere suit pants and subliminal scent of sulphur which filtered past the post-vision migraine.

Crowley.

It wasn’t the first time she’d returned to herself and found Crowley in uncomfortably close physical proximity, he seemed to delight in invading her personal space, but this didn’t feel like his usual domination and shows of force. It was more like the way she’d pet Slinky while watching a movie.

She pushed herself upright, out of Crowley’s lap and looked around confused, finding herself and Crowley in her daughters’ bedroom, on her bed.

“How…?”

“Teenaged girls, take it from me Pet, they’ll bugger up all your best laid plans. Salt lines on double sided tape _was_ smart. Assuming they’d stay there … _wasn’t_.”

Michele groaned softly.

“Don’t feel bad, Love.” Crowley patted her shoulder once, before his hand slid down to encircle her wrist laxly.

“I would have let you keep your illusions … but well, I figured you’d rather not have neighbourhood tongues wagging over how you were swooned in the arms of a handsome stranger, while dear old hubby was conspicuously absent…

Where is your entourage by the way?” He asked, sounding lazy and only marginally interested.

“Shopping,” she replied side eyeing the chilled out demon, “for …umm Mother’s Day presents.”

She looked around again, beside them on the bed lay several things.

The sea shell Chris had given Crowley at the beach, a pencil sketch of Crowley (that Michele now knew his son Gavin had drawn,) and an empty plastic syringe, red dregs of Crowley’s latest fix beading inside the opaque plastic barrel… which explained Crowley’s suddenly sanguine demeanour.

“Mother’s Day…” He mused, thumb working absentmindedly back and forth against the fabric of her shirt sleeve. “I hope they get you something nice Darling, you certainly deserve it.”

Michele closed her eyes, still gathering herself and filtering through the last batch of visions.

Kelly’s averted eyes and pained desperation.

_“I don't know how long until... I don't know how long I have left. And I...I'm never gonna be able to teach him how to ride a bike or watch him get married or even look him in the eyes! But I can build him a stupid Swedish crib! I can do that.”_

The sight of Kelly, trying to record a message to her son, a son she’d never meet as tears ran down her cheeks.

Remembered how Kelly had/would look up at Mary Winchester and say,

“I’m dying. But that's okay. 'Cause wouldn't you die for your sons?”

Michele felt her chest clench with grief and a tear spilled down her cheek.

“Oi, no tears, it can’t be that bad!” Crowley complained querulously, and lifted his uninjured hand to smudge at her tears with his thumb. “You’re harshing my glow.” He muttered, then stared dozily at his thumb, raised it to his mouth and licked it, then pulled a face.

Michele grimaced, repulsed.

“Kelly’s going to die. There’s no way she can survive.” She said.

Crowley hummed and looked away.

“You want to use me as leverage against Jack. So, you can use _him_ as a weapon against Lucifer.” She accused.

Crowley blinked at her owlishly, and shrugged ruefully.

“Better the devil you know, isn’t it, Love? What else did you see. Tell uncle Crowley everything.”

She blew a breath.

“You were right, this child, Jack, he’s powerful. If Lucifer gets his hands on him… he really will be able to destroy everything. I saw something… as his birth gets closer, power is leaking.”

“Power outage. Yes, yes.”

“No… I saw...” She tried to sketch the shape of the glowing rift in the air with her hand, as if that could explain things to Crowley.

“Castiel, he said … Jack being born, his power, it’s punctured the fabric of our universe, creating a tear in space and time. A doorway to a-another world, some kind of alternate reality - a bombed out apocalypse world.

The Earth there is locked in war between Heaven and Hell, with humans caught in between, nearly extinct. It’s a world where Sam and Dean were never born, but the angel’s apocalypse still happened, somehow.”

“Bloody Hell!” Crowley straightened and looked alarmed sobering.

“Castiel thinks Jack will close the breach… But Lucifer’s hunting them…”

“Feathers is an imbecile, Nephilim don’t just pop out with control over their powers. Holes let things through!” The demon frowned and looked speculative, “and maybe that’s the answer…” Crowley stood up suddenly and shoved his belongings back into his pockets. Reached out and patted her head like she was a dog.

“Well Pet, must fly, need to find a spell to stitch up a hole in the universe… sounds just the job for a former tailor, doesn’t it? Be a good girl while I’m gone, and I might bring you back a present.”

With that Crowley was gone.

…ooo0ooo…

Michele found herself sitting on a park bench overlooking water.

Bemused she looked around.

Taking in the view she realised she was sitting on Chris’s favourite bench at the duck pond, turned open mouthed expecting to confront Crowley and demand an explanation.

Instead she found another man sitting there, as different from Crowley as night from day; dressed as he was in worn jeans, canvas keds, a maroon hoodie and a scruffy kaki jacket. He was several inches taller than her, but still short, with curly, mid-brown hair and a beard that ambled the line between ruffled and unkempt.

He was a decidedly average man, veering slightly towards down and out in his clothing and appearance, a man that embodied the phrase, ‘mostly harmless,’ nothing memorable to look at.

The man returned her gaze patiently, unruffled and unabashed by her extended scrutiny.

The most striking thing about the man were his blue eyes, she decided.   
His eyes were beautiful, warm and expressive, but looked sad and tired, underlined as they were by dark shadows, as if he’d seen too much lately.

Despite being certain she’d never seen him before, Michele had the oddest sensation she knew him.

“I know you?” She said finally, sounding more certain than questioning, even to her own ears.

In response the man’s face lit up with a warm smile, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“And I know you, Michele Cherie.” He replied solemnly.

Like his appearance the the man’s voice was nothing special, a slight American accent maybe.

But the way he said her name hit her like a wave of déjà vu, one that carried with it a deep feeling of home and left her feeling weak kneed and lightheaded.

Pulling something out of his jacket pocket, the familiar stranger held it out so she could see.

It was a necklace of sorts, strung on a leather thong, a dark bronzeish horned head, which looked vaguely pagan.

“I borrowed it,” he told her, as if that would explain anything, “thought that since you’re a fan, and we’re all friends, Dean wouldn’t mind, as long as I returned it…” The little man twitched a finger, and a piercing white light exploded from the bronze face.

“Oh.” It was a gasp of shock as she slid off the bench to her knees. Staring, shocked.

The… man twitched his finger again, and the light died, then he tucked the necklace back into his jacket pocket and turned fully to face her. Knelt down on the grass facing her, with his head cocked to one side, gifting her with a patient smile.

“I thought we should talk.”

Michele opened her mouth and struggling to think of something to say, closed it again, uncertain how to even begin addressing The Creator of everything.

“Maybe it will be easier if you just called me Chuck.” God suggested, reaching out a hand and drew her back up to sit on the bench again, offering her another coaxing smile.

“I—, I’m sorry.” She stammered trying to collect herself.

“It’s okay, I get it, this, is a lot to take in.”

Fear flooded her suddenly, remembering all the angry words she’d spat after Crowley first showed up. “I didn’t, I didn’t mean…”

“I know. It’s okay, honestly.

Heck doubts and fears… questioning, that’s why I made humanity. Without choice nothing’s real, you know.”

“Why…”

“Why am I here, now?”

Michele nodded numbly.

“You’re my child, I hear your prayers…” the blue eyes averted, and the corner of his mouth twisted beneath his beard, “but also because of what Sibel and the other angels did to you, what it will mean for my creation.

You once told Dean that what you see becomes a chink in their armour. You were right after a fashion, but not because of the story you are writing.”

“I don’t…”

Chuck sighed. “Lucifer,” He spoke the name quietly. “You have yellow eyed demon blood in you, like Sam. Lucifer created all his Princes of Hell with a link to him, to ensure their loyalty. Azazel infected certain select human infants with his blood and that tied them to him. But also, to Lucifer. The angels tried to create a heavenly warrior in response to Azazel’s special children; you … using angelic grace and the blood of Ramiel, another prince of Hell. The angels and Azazel never understood, all those special children were just a cover for Lucifer’s interest in Sam Winchester, his true vessel. Lucifer had Azazel feed Sam his blood, so Sam formed a tie to Azazel and through him, to Lucifer.”

“Oh!” Michele’s head spun as she considered the implications, “Are you telling me I’m tied to L-lucifer?”

“And to Sam,” Chuck agreed, “and through him to Crowley, now by a number of routes.”

“Crowley?”

“The life of the creature is in the blood. When Sam attempted the Hell trials, he injected his own blood into Crowley, while attempting the demon cure.

That attempted cure is the reason for Crowley’s blood addiction. 

An addiction you have experienced… repeatedly. But that isn’t important just now.”

“Not import— _linked_ to _Lucifer_?… **_Ohhh God!_** ” The expletive fell out and — Chuck lifted an eyebrow but nodded in response.

The Devil, Satan! The awfulness of the thought overwhelmed her. Crowley was a twisted broken spirit of someone who’d once been human; Ramiel too, she guessed.

Gadreel was an angel, one who had been duped by Lucifer, then Metatron, but he’d sacrificed himself in the end trying to fix things when he saw the error of his ways.

But Lucifer had always hated humanity, he’d caused the fall, the original sin, he had ruined everything!

Lucifer was the greatest evil imaginable to her Christian sensibilities.

She’d only glimpsed second hand memories of the things Lucifer had done to Sam in the cage, but they were horrific. “…I know he’s supposed to be your favourite, but... heck! I can’t—“her voice failed, how could she start express all the horror?

“Lucifer isn’t my favourite. I loved him, I love him still…”

Michele whimpered as she looked upon the face of her God, and wanted to weep.

How could God still love Lucifer, after everything he’d done?

“I am not willing that _any_ might perish.” Chuck responded stubbornly to her unspoken thoughts, jaw clenched.

“But you were willing to let Sam throw himself into the cage with Lucifer? To endure all that torture by Lucifer’s hand?!  
You were willing to let Gadreel to murder Kevin, using Sam’s body. EVERYTHING THE WINCHESTERS HAVE SUFFERED? You were willing for that?”

Chuck didn’t answer, and suddenly that silence lit a fuse inside her.

“Why did my friend Nic have to die of cancer? Caitlin, her little girl was s-o young, why did she have to lose her mother?  
We all prayed, _the whole church!_ We all believed for a miracle … and she _died_. You sure seemed willing to let that happen.  
And ... and what about my son? Why did my son Davi’ die?! Why give me a child, then take him away like that, after all those months of sickness?! And, Johnny, I had just started to put myself back together to believe in a bigger plan, I was accepting Chris’ issues… but then Johnny he changed, **_he_ _broke,_** and I couldn’t fit the pieces back together, I tried _, I tried so hard._ And I didn’t understand, _I still don’t understand!_ I prayed to _you_ , I begged _you_ for answers, for _you_ to make him like he’d been.  
You’d been with me my whole life! and then, when I needed you most, you were **_silent_** … They say it’s autism, but is it? Or is it what your angels did to me. Your angels, that **_you left_** , to run amuck.”

“Michele.”

“ ** _No!_** I don’t want to know why planets are round, or why ears are shaped the way the are. I want to know **_Why!_** Why you’ve left us to suffer and hurt and die alone, while evil runs rampant. Why you ask **_so much_** of people who have paid and paid again! It’s not fair!”

“Michele, I know how hurt and alone you have felt; how deeply you love your children ~ All the people in your life. How seeing suffering breaks your heart."

"I understand that you ache to know why.  
I created this world because I was lonely... Being alone, being the grand puppet master, was… empty.  
The angels obeyed, but they didn’t understand my longing to create, to be _known_.  
And I came to see that duress isn’t love.  
Real love can only come when there is the ability to turn away and say no.  
So, I created autonomy, I created free will,” he spread his hands as if offering her the entire sum of the world, “and this is what humanity has chosen to do with it. Adam and Eve _chose_ to listen to Lucifer, to defy my _single_ rule, and they brought death upon themselves and everything in my creation. You hunger for justice?  
I locked Lucifer away. I chose humanity’s safety!”

No, she wanted to argue, no you didn’t, you locked Lucifer in a box, you put him in time out, you just postponed things, _and_ you didn’t clean up the mess he made, you ignored it. You ignored all of Us!

“So, this is all my fault?” Chuck questioned with a glare. “Azazel may have infected Sam with his blood, but when Sam died at Cold Oak he went to Heaven. It was Dean who couldn’t live without his brother, who sold his soul. Then broke in Hell before Castiel could reach him, he broke the first seal.  
It was Sam who _wanted_ to believe Ruby, so he had an excuse for vengeance. Vengeance is Mine, but he tried to take it! All caused by his hunger for demon blood and power, Sam thought he knew better, and so, he broke the last seal, killing Lilith.  
Their choices.  
How is any of that on me?  
Humans have been shifting the blame for their actions since Adam pointed his finger at Eve, and Eve pointed hers at the snake.Tell me Michele, are you without sin, are you blameless?”

Michele dropped her eyes, overwhelmed suddenly by a cascade of memories, moments in her life when she’d been weak or selfish or spiteful. “No, no… I know I’m not…” she admitted faintly, wishing she could shrink from view.

She was nothing but a failure, ungrateful, unworthy, **_soiled_**!

So far below the standard.

Tears of shame slid down her cheeks.

A hand lifted her chin, and forced her to meet Chuck’s depthless blue eyes. “Not perfect, but forgiven.” He said softly.

“You think you want justice, you think you want answers. But that isn’t what you _need_.

You ask the wrong whys. Ask instead why I couldn’t wipe the slate on the whole failed experiment of humanity. Ask why Noah and the rainbow, why the cross, why the bible, why the Supernatural books, and why I have you writing the story you are.”

“I … I don’t know.”

“You do,” Chuck disagreed with a gentle smile, “you and Sam talked about it once,” He reached down a hand and brushed her temple.

***

“Have you ever wondered why?” Michele’s voice was thoughtful, more like she was talking to herself; and maybe she was.

They’ve been sitting in silence for the past hour, each pursuing their own projects with an open video call bridging the distance between them. Dean finds it weird, wants to know what the point of calling someone then basically ignoring them is. And Sam can’t explain it to his brother, that in a weird way it feels a bit like cramming for separate finals with Jess, Becky and Warren. 

Sam glanced at the laptop screen again, away from the faded Latin document he’s been puzzling out. (It appears to be an account by a 13th century cleric, concerning the pregnancy of a cloistered nun who claimed her child was fathered by an angel.)

“You’ll have to be more specific. Why … it’s a pretty broad topic.” He favored his friend with a lopsided smile.

“Why Chuck, Uh God, wrote the supernatural books… what the point was.” She scrubbed at her lips nervously with back of her hand, gazing at him from under lowered lashes, it was one of her many tells. Sam found it sort of endearing, Michele would most likely be an incredibly bad poker player.

“I know you hate the books, I get that, but have you ever wondered why He wrote them?”

“No, not really.” Sam wondered idly if Dean would call into a bar on his way back from his supply run.

“I’ve talked, well exchanged messages with a lot of fans of the supernatural books… since uhm writing The…” she made a throw away gesture, “Thing You Hate,” she cleared her throat uncomfortably, “a lot of them...Us, I guess, have one underlying thing in common.”

Sam kept his mouth shut and refrained from voicing his own opinion of what most Supernatural fans had in common.

“A lot of… us… are broken.”

That surprised him; broken? He studied her face on the screen, but said nothing. “…hurting. I thought it was just me… But it’s not. I’ve talked with so many people who live with the ramifications of abuse or chronic illness, who were depressed, and suicidal, who had lost all hope, and then at that rock bottom, low point, they found the Supernatural books. Many of those people credit the books for helping them, saving them, keeping them fighting.

People seem to find hope and comfort in the Supernatural books in a similar way to how they do with the Bible.”

Sam huffed in derision. “People find hope in …?!” He waved an irritated hand.

“People find hope in the bible, so yeah why not? Have you read the bible Sam? Quite frankly there’s a whole lot of nasty in it too. Even God’s favorites have a crap time, especially God’s favorites … look at Job.”

“So, what, you think that the Supernatural books are a … a what? A cosmic it could be worse story?”

Michele closed her eyes briefly. “You know nothing Jon Snow…” she gave him a hint of a smile as she said it, teasing him subtly, coaxing him to do better.  
“The bible’s about love, choice, sacrifice, salvation and relationship. It’s proof that we aren’t alone in what we suffer. There’s a lot of bad in the bible... but there’s also a lot of good. Just like your story. Love, choice, sacrifice, salvation and relationship. Those things are stars that light the darkness. A light in dark places, when all other lights go out.”

“Lord of the Rings?”

“Yup, nothing original here.” She muttered, and he could tell she was staring pensively at her computer screen, at the words of her story.

“Michele… Chuck’s books, why does it matter, the Why?”

“Maybe it doesn’t,” she admitted and gave him a smile that was sad round the edges. “Maybe asking why is childish… My girls they asked why, why, why when they went through _that_ phase, I don’t think they even stopped to listen to the answers. I used to short circuit them by asking what color the kitchen sponge was.

Johnny, he’d asked why too, and suck the information out of every answer, use it to formulate his next question like a lawyer cross examining a witness on the stand.  
Chris, he doesn’t even say the word yet… and I’m not sure when or if I’ll ever hear him say it.” She bit her lip. “Why do I have to write Sam? There’s not many people reading the blasted _thing_ I’m writing, The _Thing_ You Hate, the **_Thing_** that you don’t want your brother knowing about ... I’ve read the parable of the 99 sheep a zillion times. And I wonder sometimes, if maybe that’s what the Supernatural books and my fic are, God’s way of going after those lost sheep.”

***

Michele blinked her way out of the memory.

“I’m not willing that any might perish Michele. For human’s physical death is not the same as perishing. Caitlin didn’t lose her mother, she is just parted from her for a while.

Your son Davi’ is waiting for you in heaven too.

I offer all of my creation a redemption arc.

Even Lucifer.

Some are longer than others, because they need to be. And some just won’t accept the chances I give.

But still, I give every one a chance to play out their own story of love, choice, sacrifice, salvation and relationship.”


	113. Choice and Consequence

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 113: Choice and Consequence**

Michele sucked a breath and tried to steady herself.

  
How many times in her life had she prayed, asking God to tell her what to do?  
And now she knew, God never would.  
He’d never tell her what to do.  
It was her choice, and consequence.  
The realisation of this was as confusing and painful as being thrust abruptly through a second adolescence. Forced to understand that _her_ actions, and the consequences thereof were hers, because that was _the point._

God had set humanity free of himself in a way he never had with the angels, by creating it capable of bringing forth life.   
God had limited himself, and tied his own hands by reaching for love, and attempting to create something _real._  
The bible had never impressed that upon her, the _enormity_ of it all.  
Creation had been set in motion, like a complex computer program designed to find a solution to the problem of God’s longing for connection. Controlled by a set of arbitrary conditions that _must be_ abided by.  
At the centre of everything, sat the prime directive of choice.

Chuck had showed her a million futures, the cascade and branching of possibility. It was more information than her human mind could grasp or hold. But for a moment she’d understood _everything_ , and seen how free will and predestination were the same in the face of true omnipotence.

And then Chuck had left.

Left her to decide, as if none of it mattered. As if He didn’t have an opinion, or care.

She understood now, that He did care.  
But God had a wider viewing point than she’d understood, and was foreign beyond her imagining. All of her life she had thought of God as some kind of super smart person, He wasn’t. She understood that now.

During God’s attempts to come down to humanity’s level, nearly everything got lost in translation, by necessity. She was a prophet, born and bred for generations to be a conduit, but her mind was still too frail to encompass or hold everything. He’d come wearing Chuck Shurley’s face, but that was just a bearable mask, because no mortal human could see God’s face and live.  
Jesus and Chuck, they were slivers of God’s love, held inside fragile human vessels. To provide a fragile pathway to redemption, a lifeline, which could be provided without breaking the rules He had bound Himself by. God was too vast, and powerful, for his true presence to be borne.

Despite that, He wasn’t distant.  
He had a part in humanity and _everything_ He had created.

  
From her perspective, humanity was weak and powerless against the angels, but now she saw, the angels were an endangered species, dwindling towards extinction, while humanity continually increased in numbers.  
God had created humanity and the angels both, to be a part of his creation’s delicate balance. So He stubbornly refused bias towards either side.   
But He had never watched proceedings from afar.

He felt and lived the suffering and joy of all of His creations, in much the same way she had tasted again and again in her visions.  
God understood the motivations and needs of the murderer and the murdered intimately, loving both equally, and saw every act in creation from every angle … not just from one or two individual perspectives, as she had, but from everyone, everything, constantly…

Chuck hadn’t told her what he wanted her to do, He hadn’t asked anything of her, He’d simply shown her the roads of the future and where they led. Then tossed her back into her life to continue making choices.

It was hard, and painful. But necessary from God’s point of view.  
But for all her new education, Michele still couldn’t find it in herself to agree.  
She’d watched the world saved. And watched the world burn at Lucifer’s command. She’d watched the path of her choices run through it all like a single blood red thread. Watched everyone she loved die a million times, in a million horrific ways. Her own cage had been built of the people she loved and those who loved her.  
She’d watched herself break, because Lucifer, like Crowley knew what she loved most, and what she would do for it. Because she wasn’t and couldn’t be Abraham. (And amazingly God could forgive that.)  
Like Crowley, Lucifer also knew her value to Jack, his son, the Nephilim. And to Sam, because no matter what dismissive words Lucifer might have said to Sam, he wasn’t finished with Sam, or Dean either.

Those who had the privilege to know, had the duty to act.

Stumbling and shell-shocked by everything Chuck had shown her, Michele staggered through her house, and curled up on her own bed, like an injured animal. Trying to find a way through the horror of it all, and the strength to choose.

Later when her family came home that’s where they found her, asleep.

They didn’t wake her.

…ooo0ooo…

Crowley snorted in amusement and ran a manicured finger over the stone tablet in front of him.

  
The Tablet of Destiny, as it had been called was old, housed in a carved box bound in what was probably Mushussu hide, he’d collected it back at a time he’d been searching for ways to solidify his power base.  
Tracked it down in the possession of a minor Babylonian deity, Anzu.  
Rumour had it that whoever possessed the Tablet of Destinies would rule the universe.

Unfortunately, as was often the case with ancient artefacts, the Tablet of Destinies hadn’t been as advertised. Instead of a source of universe controlling power, it contained a series of spells, and the instructions for accessing parallel universes.  
An exotic concept, to be sure, but one Crowley had rejected in favour of harvesting the souls from Purgatory. 

The components required to form a breach between universes, were not worth the cost or effort to obtain them.

Now as if by Divine providence the second part of the tablet held what he needed. A spell to heal rips between universes, and if he played his cards right it might even function as a means to deal with the problem of Lucifer.  
As fate, or more likely, a certain housewife hijacking Creator-come-writer would have it, healing the rip between universes required an item, the collection thereof, might even count as a good deed.

…ooo0ooo…

“Sam, Dean didn’t choose your mother over you when he let you attack the Men of Letters without him.”

Sam turned and looked at Michele in surprise.

“He let you go alone because I asked him too, I begged him to, because I had a vision that his leg gave out and he fell, distracted you at the wrong moment, you got shot because of it,” Her voice wavered, “…y-you died Sam, and then …he died too. I didn’t tell him you both died, only that you did ~ because of him, his injury.   
I was afraid he’d insist on going anyway, so I manipulated him.” He stared at her, and Michele looked back, her eyes pleading.

“What are you saying?”

“That I’ve done things you mightn’t approve of, for reasons you might disagree with. But I’ve been trying to do what’s right!” she stepped closer and looked up at him, raising a small hand to cup his cheek.

“Sam I’m sorry… when you find out about some of my choices...” She took a shaky breath. “You’ll probably be angry at me, I need you to know I never wanted to hurt you. Sometimes there are no good choices. And some gifts… we can’t hold on to them.”

He shook his head in confusion, making her fingertips brush against his lips as he did so.

She took the gesture as some kind of rejection, he saw it on her face as she let her hand drop away and went to step back.  
He captured her hand in his and lifting it again, pressed her palm against his lips, kissed it while holding her eyes.

“What ever you’ve done, I can’t believe I’d be angry with you,” he told her.

She lifted her chin, her mouth forming a pout, it was her stubourn look, one which always combined with her freckles and wide eyes, to create an effect pretty much the exact opposite of what she intended.

“You know nothing Jo—“ she began.

He didn’t let her finish calling him Jon Snow, pulled her body tight against his. And stooped to stopped her mouth with his own.

  
For one moment Michele seemed to melt, opening herself up to him.   
Clung to him in a way that felt like coming home; then, with a low whimper she started struggling; and her hands braced against his chest.

Surprised, he released her.

She stumbled backwards, tripped and fell on her ass.

“Sam!” She breathed, her hand raised to her lips, shaking her head. “Please don’t make this harder…. I can’t… I can’t be that for you.” She climbed to her feet again and backed up a step, looking torn. “This, you and me, it isn’t _real_ , it’s just the demon blood making us….”

Confused and stung, he splayed his hands placatingly and raked a harried hand through his hair.

“Look, Michele, I get it, I know I overstepped, misinterpreted, I get that.   
But it’s not the _demon blood_. How can you even say that!?”

“Because I know what I am, and what I’m not.” She said softly and shook her head again. “Please Sam don’t make this harder, _please just...  
_ Soon enough it’s not going to matter.  
Sam, I’m going to die.  
What I am, what _they_ made me into... I haven’t been 100% honest with you, about how sick I’ve been. It’s…” her lips quirked humorlessly, “a miracle, I’ve made it this long.”

“The grace extraction…”

“Sam, please stop, it wouldn’t fix anything, it can’t, and we don’t have time to argue!” She looked frustrated, “you’re going to find Castiel and Kelly in North Cove, but Lucifer won’t be far behind you. He can’t get his hands on Kelly’s child!  
If he does, the world burns.  
You need to let Crowley help!   
Do _you understand?  
_ And, _please_ don’t let Dean poke any more holes in him, he’s trying… Crowley, he hates Lucifer more than anything else, you _can_ trust that.   
Kelly’s son, Jack, he’s not evil. Try to believe me, Sam. But he _is_ powerful.  
A Nephilim grows more powerful than the angel that engenders it.  
Jack, he’s also going to be just a kid, Sam. A kid with a heart and a human soul.  
Kelly recorded a message for him, to tell him he’ll be what he _chooses_ to be. She’s right, _what we choose matters._

More than I knew. It’s the difference between us and the angels. Humanities gift.  
It always boils down to _choice_ , and the people that don’t give up on us... You are proof of that. You’re a good man Sam, despite all Lucifer’s plans.  
Jack can be the same, if you can love and believe in him the way Dean’s believed in you.  
Like I believe in you, Sam.

I know you _can_ do this.”

Michele darted forward then, to hug him tightly and lay a kiss on his cheek before slipping out of his arms again, like smoke.

She turned then, and tried to walk away.   
But he strode after her caught her wrist, jerked her to a stop.

“Michele you can’t… You can’t just suddenly tell me you’re dying, _and that it doesn’t matter_. It matters to me! You can’t just give up. I won’t let you! We — we’ll figure it out. I mean if you saw… you can stop it. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”

“Sam…” Michele’s face softened as she looked up at him, her eyes glossy, “my dear, sweet, brave friend...” She stroked a hand down his arm soothingly, her face tender. “Believe me, I’m not giving up.” She wrapped her small fingers around the hand he held her with and squeezed lightly. “But you need to let me go now. Please Sam...”

***

“…Sam.” A hand tugged at his. “Sam, you need to wake up.”

Sam opened his eyes to find himself in the impala, with his mother leaning across the seat, her hand wrapped around his own.

“Dean says we’re just about there.” She informed, handing him a bottle of water.

  
Disorientated he blinked, his brain sluggishly trying to catch up.

Just a dream.

…ooo0ooo….

Michele hadn’t been sure she could reach Dean, when she left Sam, she had wandered through her own dreams for a while, regretting everything she hadn’t thought to say to Sam.

Knocked off balance by the fact Sam had kissed her, felt conflicted and confused by it.

When she found Dean, it came as a surprise. She had been walked down one of the hallways to her old Laboratory. Had pushed through the swing door and found herself in a bar.  
No, a strip club, if the topless, thong wearing woman, in a cowboy hat, gyrating around a metal pole, was any indicator.

There, front and centre sat Dean Winchester broad back facing her, beer bottles, and a line of shot glasses arrayed in front of him like a general planning to wage war on sobriety.

“Dean.” Michele called his name. But he failed to hear her above the pounding base of the music the pig-tailed blonde was dancing too.

Striding past empty tables, she reached out a hand, to shake his shoulder.

Her hand never reached him, the older Winchester brother spun to his feet, drawing his gun on her.

It was impossible to say who was more shocked.

“Sonofabitch!” Dean growled, his gun disappearing as quickly as it had appeared.

“Mitch! what the Hell are you doin’ here,” he asked, his eyes darting back towards the topless woman, his Adam’s apple bobbed jerkily.

“In a… strip joint?” She asked uncertainly.

  
Dean’s spine straightened and his chin lifted like a soldier coming to attention in the face of a court marshal. 

“Yeah, for starters.” Dean licked at his lips and looked away, then gathered himself. “Girls like you… they don’t belong in the same part of town as this kinda joint.”

“This may come as a startling revelation, but I have seen breasts before Dean.” She replied tartly and rolled her eyes, one hand on her hip.

Dean gave her a startled look then raised an eyebrow.

“Really?! Heh! I forgot you were a college girl. Thought you’da been more into prayer groups and shit than — experimentation.”

“Dean!” She laugh-coughed, mortified, covering her suddenly hot face with her hand. “That’s not… I’m a _girl_ , I have breasts of my own, Thanks very much...”

Dean laughed and reached out to pat her back in rough affection. “You’re welcome, Mitch, you’re _way_ too easy!”

She smiled up at him in return, rueful. “You _know_ I’m not.”

“True. Still doesn’t explain…” he shot her his killer smile. “…What a nice girl like you is doin’ in a joint like this.”

Michele sighed, and suddenly felt all the levity of the situation burst like a soap bubble. She stared at the man who had been through so much and knew words would never be enough.

“I came to say Thank you, and to beg you to stop punishing yourself for other people’s choices, you’ve spent your whole life trying to do the best you could.

That’s all anyone, Sam, your Mom and Dad, Bobby, God… Or even I could ever ask.  
Some things… like dying… they have to happen. Remember Harry Potter and the deathly hallows … Death isn’t always an enemy Dean…”

Dean’s lips twisted, “So you’re sayin’ this is the end of the road?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could Dean was ripped away from her.

***

Passing his Mom on the gas station forecourt as she made her way to the lady’s room, Sam strode back towards the impala swigging a bag of supplies. He’d paid for the gas, and gotten Dean the caffeine and sugar requested.

Dean was back in the car, asleep behind the wheel, snatching a cat nap the way he (and Dad before him) had the knack of doing.

Sam had never had that ability; to turn off and snatch sleep in aborted gulps, it usually took him hours to wind down and succumb to sleep. 

True to form Dean jerked awake as he touched the impala.

“You know Dean, Mom and I can both drive, if you weren’t so precious about the car…” he snarked as he slid into the backseat again.

“I’m not precious, Mom drives like a rally driver, and you ride the clutch with your giant-ass clodhoppers. Baby, she’s not getting any younger Sam, she needs to be treated like a lady, with a bit of TLC and respect...”

“Doesn’t change the facts Dean, you were asleep...”

“And dreamin’ of that strip joint in Tonopah, until your girl friend walked in and started talking about Harry Potter…”

Sam grimaced, reminded of the motel in Tonopah and it’s disturbing theme that Dean had thought was so humorous, he would rather forget the place existed—

  
or better yet, burn it to the ground.

“Tonopah, Dean? I never had a girl friend in Tonopah, that was back…”

Dean looked pained. “In ’06, Yeah Dude, sorry, I meant Mitch.”

Sam grimaced, remembering his own dream… The kiss… and felt a pulse of guilt and embarrassment, “Michele isn’t my girlfriend Dean, she’s married, remember!” 

“She’s a girl and she’s your friend Sammy, don’t be a Bitch.”

“Well, don’t be a Jerk then.”

“Boys!” Mary admonished sliding into the car, “what are you arguing about?”

Sam and his brother exchanged a quick glance.

“Sammy was bitching for me to let him drive.” Dean muttered looking down.

Mom smiled fondly and leaned back to pat Sam’s knee across the seat, “Sam, your father was the same way.” Which was true, but rankled Sam anyway. Just because Dad had been too much of a stubborn ass to relinquish the wheel or let someone help, it didn’t make it right for Dean to be the same way.

Sam saw Dean flinch minutely, wordlessly aware of his thoughts, clued in by some flicker of micro expression that had crossed his face.

Mom, as usual, was blissfully clueless.

…ooo0ooo…

Crowley surveyed the weathered white cabin where Castiel and the mother of Lucifer’s love child had been holed up for the last month and sighed wearily.

  
It was quaint, isolated and surrounded on three sides by ocean, Feathers had certainly put a lot of time and attention into warding it.  
There was no chance of a quick dash and grab, which left him with the unhappy task of negotiating with numbskulls.

Within, he heard two female voices, then a muffled cry and watched as all the lights in the building flickered behind closed curtains.  
Apparently, time was short, the woman was already in labour.  
Sam’s pet prophet had been correct, Kelly Kline was a goner.

He circled the building once. Noting the familiar bulk of Dean’s precious black muscle car and an ancient Ford truck parked outside.

The demon stopped dead in front of the glowing rip in reality hanging pulsing and sizzling in mid air.  
Paced around it, to examine it from all sides, fascinated and intrigued.  
Crowley raised a hand to touch, then thought better of it, and backed away instead, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

A world without Winchester’s, a bombed out apocalypse world where Heaven and Hell were locked in battle, she had said.

The rip seemed to flex and flare brighter; he backed up still further and stepping behind a tree, eyes narrowed and body tense.

Suddenly, the Winchester’s and their pet angel materialized.

Castiel turned to the Winchester’s looking concerned and constipated. “Are you all right?” He asked holding out a hand.

“No, Cas. Pretty far from all right. I mean, we've got Lucifer on this side, we've got Mad Max World on that side.  
I mean, yeah, we've been down before, but this? I-I mean, I don't even know where to start.” Dean fumed, glaring moodily at the angel while his brother loomed behind them silently, looking typically woe begone and sour.

Crowley smirked and stepped into view.

“Oh, come on!” Dean flared, catching sight of him, a look on his face similar to the one he’d worn before he drove the demon knife into his hand, back in Lebanon.

“Hello, boys…. Again.” he greeted notchalantly. 

“Wait a second, how the hell did you –“Moose demanded.

He didn’t bother answering, simply held up his neatly bandaged hand.

  
“I improvised.” He told him shooting the ungrateful wretches a resentful look. “Lucky I did. Turns out I'm the answer to all your problems.”

Moose frowned and ran his palm down his face huffing like a spooked racehorse.

“O-okay… you can help, and Dean promises not to poke any more holes in you…”

Dean glared at him.

“For now. So, tell us Crowley, how are _you_ the answer to all our problems.”

“You see that,” he gestured behind them at the rift, “as a problem, I see it as an inter dimensional opportunity.”

“Yeah, and how do you figure that one, huh?” Dean snarked.

“That dear boy is an inter dimensional garbage shoot.” Crowley waved a hand like a used car salesman, as Larry, Curly and Moe continued slow on the uptake. “Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour,” he expanded.

Sam gave him a weird look, and he realised belatedly, he’d picked up another bad habit from his pet prophet.

He smirked mockingly by way of cover. “What you chuckleheads are going to do… is give said lion some prey to chase. Right through that there rip into - what did you call it, Dean? Mad Max world?”

“The rift goes both ways.” Castiel informed him, looking unimpressed.

“Which is where this comes into play.” He slid half of the Tablet of Destinies out of his coat and held it out to the angel, watched Castiel scan it and look impressed.

“Do you know what that is? How did you —“

“A lady doesn’t tell tales Darling. Assure Heckle and Jeckle here it’s the real deal, and we can get on with conspiring against the devil.”

“It’s real.  
Half of The Tablet of Destinies … a codex of spells pertaining to the creation, and healing of rifts between dimensions. Last I heard Balthazar had it… the spell for closing the rift appears to be incomplete however...” He levelled a mistrustful glare at Crowley once more.

  
_No trust some people!_

“A trick I learned from you Cassie boy. I got the _entire_ thing from a rather unpleasant Babylonian monster, or godlet— whatever. Nasty feathery beastie, called itself Anzu.  
I know how it works with you boys, you don’t buy the cow if you can get the milk for free. And as I’m loath to be shut out of the dance, this girl needs a few secrets.  
You understand.”

Castiel nodded shortly and held out his hand.  
He slapped the half Tablet roughly into the angel’s palm.

Crowley saw the exact moment the angel read the requirement for angelic grace, he bristled again. “If you think I’m going to…”

“Relax,” he levelled the angel with a contemptuous glare, “if we are going toe to toe with the devil I need you at whatever passes for your full strength these days. I have another source in mind.”

Castiel glanced across at Sam. 

“No, not what ever's left in Moose either. Cross my heart, I won’t touch a hair on Moose’s pretty little head.

I will however require the apparatus. I’ll assume they have it here.”

“What’s he talkin’ about Cas.” Dean broke in.

“The spell to close the rift, it requires angelic grace.”

They all stared at him.

“I have a source okay?! 100% cruelty free, sort of. Who or what it is… you can mind your business over, or deals off. But I assure you it’s nothing that would cause Moose a sleepless night.”

Behind them, from the house, another scream rent the air.

Surprisingly, it was Moose who was first to agree.

“Fine!” He huffed and marched back towards the impala; unlocked and opened the trunk, drew out a bundle of pages and a box. “It’s here, but we need it back.”

Sam’s eyes slanted back towards Castiel guiltily.

“Yes, yes, your plan to defuse the little A-bomb, I’m behind it one hundred percent, by the way. Though, sadly it’s too late for the woman now. That thing is Lucifer’s spawn after all. Think of it like this, I’ll get a chance to practice with the device.” He tapped the box. “Just in case Feathers tries to welch later on.”

Moose held onto the box for a moment longer, then reluctantly let it go.  
“You better be back.” He vowed with another Neanderthal-like scowl.

“Oh Moose.” He patted the hunter’s cheek playfully, “ _have a little faith!”_ He advised him, smirked saucily and he vanished…


	114. All Things Work Together

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 114: All things work together**

Crowley stepped jauntily up to the prophet’s door, raised the hand not carrying the leather valise of spell ingredients, and rapped his knuckles briskly on the wood.

“Crowley,” the little brunette greeted him solemnly, opening the door, stepping back to allow him entrance.

“Ma Cherie.” He waved his unoccupied hand in greeting and moved past her, over the un-salted, un-warded threshold. “As promised, I come bearing gifts!” From his coat pocket he drew out the box containing the grace extraction device, and a bar of salted caramel toffee he’d picked up while in Jordan, procuring Dead Sea brine. “For the tyke,” he pronounced tossing her the candy bar, “where is it?” He asked looking round for the child.

“ _Chris_ , is with a friend this morning,” she hesitated and frowned giving him a tight smile as she examined the candy.

“What?” He bristled, “It’s not poisoned!”

“I know that Crowley, thank you for the thought, it’s just… Chris, he can’t tackle things like toffee and nuts. Talking, chewing and swallowing … they’re issues for him. Lollipops, they are better.”  
The demon felt a strange flare of disappointment and shrugged it away.

Looked around the living room and raised an eyebrow.

Usually the prophet’s living spaces were scattered with a debris’s of child related books and toys, but today the room was pin neat and strangely bare of personality, not a plastic animal or die-cast car in sight. Even the family portraits were missing from the walls.

“I come bearing _other_ gifts.” He continued, flipping open the lid of the box he held...

The prophet looked into the box.

“A syringe… mmm.” She murmured tightly, her face pale, strained and unenthusiastic.

“Not just any syringe, Pet. This here syringe was made to extract _angelic grace_. The nasty stuff causing all your … issues. Turns out, all things really do work for good, for _you people_.”

The prophet just looked at him with wide green eyes.

“I need angelic grace,” he continued, “to heal the rip, that — “he stumbled, on the edge of using the word abomination, “—child, you saved, made in the fabric of the universe. Come on Kitten, it’s win win. Time’s short, we’ve got ninety-nine problems and only one of them’s the Devil.” His impatience was beginning to show now. “Look I won’t lie, by all accounts the procedure is uncomfortable as…” He smiled at her, “… Hell, but I promise it won’t kill you. I need you, don’t I? Cross my heart and hope to die!”

Her lips twisted ruefully.

“I can’t believe _you_ are balking at a needle. Moose and Squirrel need your assistance Pet. Think of the discomfort as…a sacrifice for the greater good, isn’t that what you people live for?” He coaxed some more.

“Yes.” She agreed softly and turned away. “But first… wash your hands.” She ordered, reached out and took his hand, divested him of the bag of spell ingredients and the box containing the grace extraction device, placed them on the kitchen bench as she led him passed.

“Germs again?” He griped, rounding the bathroom door and strode towards the sink. Stopped suddenly in the middle of the bathroom floor without meaning to.  
Looked down in shock, to find himself standing in the middle of a devil’s trap.

“You—!” He spluttered.

The prophet sighed unhappy. Gesturing towards the bathroom sink, out of reach, beyond the trap.

“Children’s washable markers, I’m sorry… and it’s not what you think. I do want to give you the grace. But you … you’ve changed since you started drinking my blood, it’s my fault, Sam’s fault. Kevin’s fault.  
We’ve all infected you… with the things we care about. That’s why you kept Mrs Tran alive, why you feel how you do about Dean, why you keep helping to solve the crisis of the week, and why you read stories and buy candy bars for my son.”

He stared at her, was she right? Did that explain why he’d gone soft?

“You’re more human now, a better man.  
The grace extraction, you stopped… will stop.  
You said it would be enough, but it wasn’t. I guess I’ve grown on you.” She looked at him sadly in a way that was almost fond. “…Or maybe it’s because Johnny’s 8, the same age you were when your mother abandoned you… you know what it’s like to face the world without a defender...  
I do know you’d kill her, easy as anything, but they won’t stop if you do, and it’s my family, my people that get hurt. It’s always them who suffers most ….  
I’ve seen so many futures, Crowley.” She grimaced, and a tear rolled down her cheek making him wonder what she’d seen now.

“You have to believe me,” she begged and smudged the wetness across her check with the back of her hand, “this is the best way.”

“You’re making no sense! I need that grace, to heal that rip, to get rid of the bleeding devil. I’m trying to help here!”

“I know you are, Crowley… I know you do, it’s okay. Just… wait, okay… just a bit. You’d interfere, but I _can’t let you, okay?_ All things really do work together for good.  
…Sacrifice, it’s necessary… I, I can do this.” With that she picked up a yellow plastic duck from the edge of the bathtub and tossed it to him; turning on the bathroom extractor fan, she stepped out of the room and shut the door behind her, without a chance for him to reply or argue further.

Trapped and furious, Crowley glared down at the yellow plastic duck the hobbit housewife had tossed him; in mockery? Thinking he wanted something to play with while he _waited?_ So he didn’t interfere? What the hell with? What was she up to?  
Furious, he crushed the stupid yellow plastic thing in his fists, producing a maddeningly protracted squeak.

Above the rumbling rush of the extractor fan Crowley heard a knock on the front door.

Then indistinct voices for a few minutes.

Pacing the limits of the devil’s trap, he squashed the rubber duck repeatedly, fuming in humiliated frustration.

Decided he would give her ten minutes, then he’d be forced to get inventive with the architecture.  
His tricksy little hobbit would require chastising for this, of course she would.

She had brought it upon herself with this foolish little prank.

Crowley licked his lips trying to decide on a suitable expression of his displeasure. The grace extraction would be a start, by all accounts it _was_ _rather_ unpleasant.  
But he’d require something else as well, to help her understand who the bloody top in this relationship was.  
He couldn’t have his kitten getting too big for her boots. Feisty was diverting, but this could be the first step towards rebellion which needed nipping in the bud.

Would the big 'g' allow him to turn her over his knee and spank her?

Better not to show his hand, if she discovered she were immune to physical repercussions it might be a tad counter productive.

Maybe the husband? A small nonfatal (this time) accident. Something to incapacitate the bread winner of the family. A perfect excuse for her to need to supplement the family income. Playing nursemaid for Mr Crowley, an old colleague, who’d been suddenly lumbered with wardenship of his infant nephew, Jack.  
Perfect excuse to make his little pet more reliant on him.  
Maybe he could manufacture some sort of employment position for the husband later on, one requiring extensive travel… Crowley smiled down at the rubber duck in his hands.  
He could see it, how easy it would be to insert himself in her life, become practically part of the family.

There was a real appeal to the idea, keeping his pet and the Nephilim close, under his thumb in some safe, gilded cage, play ing at being the altruistic benefactor.

He could certainly stand to provide better accommodations than _this_ hovel. Not that his pet wasn’t an adequate house keeper, like the living room, the bathroom was clean and orderly, but in a homely sort of way, it held signs of personality, and family, the basket of plastic boats and toys in the tub, the six tooth brushes arranged neatly on the vanity, everything in it’s place, except for the packet of children’s washable markers and a bottle of mouthwash, which was balanced almost precariously on the edge of the hand-basin.

From the living room an English accented woman’s voice snarled in fury, shouting about lies. Followed swiftly by a muffled impact, and a bitten off cry.

Then the front door slammed.

“Oi!” Crowley yelled pacing restlessly inside the devil’s trap, straining his ears for any indicators of the prophet’s return.

“Oi!” He yelled again; eyes darted around the bathroom as his mind wandered back over the prophets disjointed words.

What the hell was the little twit up to?

Something moronically stupid to be sure.

His eyes narrowed.

The devil’s trap at his feet was done in washable children’s marker pen, why had she mentioned that detail?

The bottle of mouthwash sitting on the edge of the sink drew his eye again, so out of place.

He gripped the rubber duck in his fist, making it squeak once more.

Suddenly, the setup hit him.

He tossed the duck at the mouthwash.  
Which toppled off the edge of the vanity and rolled across the devil’s trap to hit his foot.  
Unscrewing the cap, he poured the pungent mint liquid over the floor.  
Watched impatiently as the Devil’s trap holding him blurred and dissolved.

Slamming open the bathroom door he strode back through the kitchen, intent on giving his brat of a prophet some justified chastisement.

Stopped dead in the lounge doorway.

“Bollocks!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh you lot are a boring bunch of people lately, expressing your investment and involvement in a manner strikingly similar to that of a month dead goldfish.


	115. Sorry, so , so, sorry.

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 115: Sorry, so, so sorry.**

How do you choose when there are no good choices?

That was the question Michele asked herself again and again as she prepared herself, using the only thing she really had… knowledge.

She knew she wasn’t brave or strong. She wasn’t a fighter and she wasn’t a hero; she was soft and weak.

If she tallied the cost she was willing to pay, the most heroic thing she could do, was to see the future and do nothing.

She hugged her children and said the words she’d already said a million times.

Read stories and made love to her husband.

Cleaned house and packed school lunches.

Sent her husband off to work with a kiss.

Wished her daughters luck for their after-school soccer game and reminded them to wait to be picked up at Paula’s, along with their little brothers, because she had an appointment.

She dropped her eldest son to school, and her youngest to her friend Paula, for a play-date with his pal Ollie.

Michele drove home, and prepared for her appointment, stripped photos of her family from the living room walls, drew a devil’s trap on the bathroom floor with a red children’s marker, and balanced a bottle of mouthwash on the edge of the vanity, placed Chris’ favourite yellow rubber duck on the side of the tub.

When she opened the door to Crowley she wanted to cry.

He was a villain who was a victim with the wavering potential for redemption. Trapped by this as much as she was.

There was no escape for him, only death in a myriad of cruel and inventive ways.

…ooo0ooo…

Josephine MacGoff hated New Zealand, it was boring and provincial, consisting of endless stretches of farmland and things that laughably called themselves towns and cities, but were as bland and pointless as the thing New Zealand takeouts insisted on passing off as curry.

Public transportation was a joke, forcing her to rent a car and navigate for herself; which might have been alright if her GPS didn’t keep having a melt down over place names, an annoyance further compounded by the infuriating way the entire population blatantly misused vowels and turned every other sentence into something that sounded like a question; It was maddening! They were perfectly capable of enunciating vowel-sounds; yet the entire nation deliberately transposed those vowel sounds into the wrong words, then had the tenacity to act as if they were speaking the queens English, and she was simply hard of hearing or dense.

New Zealanders (they called themselves Kiwis, after a drab, blind, flightless bird that spent its entire life shuffling around in the dark with its beak buried in the dirt,) were also incredibly nosey, and over familiar, accosting total strangers in the street and trying to extract their life story (then attempting to vomit out their own, by way of reciprocation.)

Why couldn’t they mind their own business?

She’d spent the past 3 days on the precipice of yelling at the entire population, every moronically smiling native and inbred shepherd, to just mind their own business.

That she truly didn’t give a damn, and no! she hadn’t seen Lord of The Rings and didn’t want to!

Since 9/11 airline security had spiralled out of control, she’d had to leave her favourite Walther PPK/S at home in Britain, which wasn’t a big issue for the American assignment. There she had a whole armoury of weaponry to choose from. But in New Zealand she was alone, had no back up, contacts or resources, couldn’t buy a gun legally and had been forced to waste _days_ trying to source a weapon through the local criminal population, only to have the whole deal fall through at the last moment because the tattooed criminal wannabe, she’d wasted days cultivating, was a misogynistic imbecile, who turned around at the last moment and decided that ‘a lady like her’ didn’t want to buy a gun, she’d only ‘shoot herself by mistake’, and she should ‘get herself a handbag dog instead.’

She’d have killed the sexist moron and taken the weapon off his corpse, but he wasn’t alone, and taking on an entire biker gang with only a knife was risky; not the best way to keep a low profile.

In the end Josephine decided that while a bullet through the skull was a time-honoured method of dealing with troublesome psychics, multiple stab wounds, and a poison the local authorities wouldn’t be smart enough to test for, would do the same job.

Dead was dead, and she just wanted to get out of the god-awful backwater and back to the action in The States, or any nation that understood how to make a decent chicken tikka masala, really.

…ooo0ooo…

Josephine MacGoff parked her hired vehicle outside the psychic’s house, checking her makeup and poisoned blade again.

Slid out of the vehicle and made her way up the front walk, passed the silver people mover in the driveway, and mounted the steps with controlled strides that wouldn’t crease her business suit or scuff her tasteful heels.

Searching for a bell or knocker and finding none, Josephine knocked firmly on the wooden door.

The door opened after a few moments wait, to reveal a short be-speckled woman with long wavy brown hair, dressed in fuzzy cat socks, faded blue jeans, and a blouse patterned with scarlet poppies.

“Mitch Chadwick, also known as Michele Chadwick?” Josephine asked primly, despite recognising her from the photograph she’d been provided.

“Yes…” The psychic replied offering Josephine a weak smile. “Please come in,” she invited, stepping back to allow Josephine entrance.

This surprised the British Men of Letters agent; she hadn’t expected to gain access so simply.

“My name is—“

“Josephine MacGoff, you work for the British Men of Letters. And you’re here to kill me.” The small woman looked up at Josephine with her head cocked. “I’m not going to fight you, it’s okay. Do what you came to do. But can I suggest you don’t return to America? The rest of your team has fled or is dead… the American hunters wiped them out, Ketch, Hess… lady Bevell, the Winchester’s and their friends took out the pillars, your organisation bit off more than it could chew with them. I’m going to be honest; I find myself glad.”

“ **No, you’re lying!** Trying to save your skin with lies. The American hunters couldn’t…  
You’re invading my head, playing on my fears.” Josephine snarled, “Like all the other monsters, you suppose you are better than people. Pollute the gene pool with your filth, and think yourself superior, manipulate and lie, worm your way into decent people’s heads..  
I won’t have it; I’ve dealt with your kind before.”

“I’m not a psychic.” The woman gave her an injured look. “I’m a prophet of the Lord. Which is a pretty crappy job, I can tell you, but it certainly doesn’t involve lying.  
Can I… can I ask you why your organisation never investigated the werewolf cure? Mick Davies wrote a paper on the cure _years ago_ and _it’s just collecting dust on a shelf?!  
_Seriously? Get some scientists to work on it!  
Do something good for the world ~ if the Devil doesn’t burn it…  
Vaccination! It’s a _much_ better way to eradicate a disease than murdering all it’s sufferers.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Josie please, just listen. Your organisation is rotten, they aren’t protecting people… What justification did they give for murdering all those American hunters? Think about it, if you actually want to protect the citizens of America, how does it make any sense? Open your eyes…”

The psychic stepped towards her and Josephine did what she was expected to do, what she’d been trained to do.

She lunged forward to meet the threat and stop all the pointless talk.

Slammed the smaller woman’s head into the wall mounted television screen behind her.

Stabbed down repeatedly with her poisoned blade, to piercing the psychic’s chest and torso, puncturing vital organs.

Josephine MacGoff was well trained, and casually efficient against such a weak opponent.

She didn’t so much as rumple her hair or catch blood splatter to her clothing.

Wiping her blade on the woman’s shirt she let the dying woman drop from her hands to the floor.

Took out her phone, and photographed evidence of the completed assignment.

At her feet the psychic rolled her head, looked up at Josephine from where she lay in a spreading pool of scarlet that matched the poppies on her blouse.

“Thank you, Josephine…” She said, then smiled, “I forgive you…” she added with a sigh.

Appalled by the psychic’s abnormal response, Josephine turned and fled the scene in brisk harried strides. Rules be damned no one would know.

Slamming the door behind her, she left the mad woman to bleed out or succumb to the poison alone.

…ooo0ooo…

Crowley stopped dead in the lounge doorway and stared, the flat screen television on the wall was a starburst of shattered glass, below it lay his prophet in a spreading pool of her own blood; her breath coming in wet rattling pants.

“Bollocks!” He strode across the carpet, dropping to his knees and hauled her half into his arms.

“What did you do?” He demanded shaking her roughly.

The prophet’s weak hands pushed at his chest, she coughed wetly, spitting up a mouthful of blood that stained her cyanotic lips and the front of his suit with vivid splashes of red.

Green eyes focused on his, and her lips drew back in a bloody smile.

“Did _nothing_ Crowley. Let her stab me. Knife was poisoned. I’m dying, you can’t save me…”

“Don’t be daft, stupid girl, ‘course I can! You can’t get away from me that easily, I’m the King of Hell.”

One of her flailing hands caught his tie, pulling his face down closer, “you _were_ King… not… not any more… Don’t know what poison… Used up your contracts getting the rift ingredients… Can’t possess me… Can’t zap me anywhere. I _won’t_ make a deal… ‘ _No matter how you play it you can’t win_.’”

The demon stared down at her.

“No! No damn it!” He hissed, suppressing a shudder, half-remembered fragments of memory rose and reached out strangling branches of a fate he couldn’t escape.

Crowley tried to transport her to the local hospital.   
Whatever she’d done, it didn’t work. 

Just like she was right about him tapping out all his contracts.

“I’m not being out-manoeuvred by a bleeding housewife.” He spat the words, wanting to shake her again in frustration, but she was already broken, and fading fast.

Stubbornly, he wasted time calling emergency services and tried to staunch the bleeding with his power.

“Ahh Crowley…” she coughed again and winced, “don’t feel bad… you’re only human.” She gifted him another bloody toothed smile, laced with something like pity.

“No, no I’m not, damn you!”

The hand that had been gripping his tie rose and cupped his cheek, smeared her blood across his mouth as her thumb moved back and forth, like she was attempting to quiet him.

“Demon’s just a ghost.” She murmured gazing up at him, mouth set in an earnest little pout, “ghost that chose… chose the wrong side… has a truckload of psycho-“ she coughed again, spitting up more blood, wiped at her mouth with trembling fingers, “…psycho-logical scars and P…PTSD. You’re not so bad, had a …wrong start on life… if you’d had a mother that loved you…” She swallowed thickly. “… _Wish_ you’d had that…”

He ignored her words.

“The paramedics are coming.” He said gruffly, pulling up her shirt to examine the wounds in her chest and torso, held his hands over the wounds trying to ascertain if the blade had been poisoned, he could feel the poison in her, feel it’s rapid spread through her body with his power.

He measured her weak pulse.

Her hand fell away from his face to ruck her shirt back down in a pathetic attempt at modesty, hovered trembling over her wounds as if to protecting them.

“Not killing me if ‘m dying…’s not… not on yo-u. …’s my choice! Get the syringe, take the Grace —All of it! Close the rift, lock _him_ away! Save my family. _Please Crowley_! Choose …right…” She was trembling now, shivering as her eyes blinked heavily starting to lose focus from either blood loss or the poison.

He clenched his fist and drew the tin box to him with his power.

Prepared the apparatus.

“Such a waste!” He fumed pointlessly, laying her out on the floor again, smoothed her hair back away from her neck, and replaced her fallen glasses on her where they belonged. Ran a thumb over the small hickey on her neck with a bitter clench of his teeth.

Felt his throat tighten traitorously.

She’d said her goodbyes.

“If you saw me falter, in one of your visions, it wasn’t from sentiment, Pet. I had plans.”

Her face called him the worst kind of liar.

“I saw Crowley… you’re not all bad… we were friends I think. I wouldn’t have done this …but… L-Lucifer … he wants me … Mmm...” Her forehead scrunched fretfully. “He’ll killed you, I couldn’t find a way out...  
But first he’ll **_hurt_** you, bad, make you beg… he’d torture my family, an’ Sam… ‘n’ Dean… break us all.  
Use me to turn Jack… Love _does_ make us weak… and yet… Love … it _can help us make the hard choices.  
_ Lucifer wants to break _everything_. Burn the world… he’s… **_he’s insane_** …” Her hand groped for his, gripped it with flagging strength.  
“H-hurts Crowley… so cold… ‘cept where poison’s… spreading, that _burns_ ….” Her eyes blinked closed.

Crowley fumbled open the box and sucked a breath past bared teeth.

“Sorry Love, it’s going to get a lot worse when I do this.” He muttered finding the correct position to sink the needle.

Her eyes fluttered open again, struggling to focus.

She bit at her lip and forced a humourless smile.  
“What happened to demon’s lying…?” She asked, plaintively, which forced a shocked cough of surprised laughter and a pulse of yearning respect out of him.

Such a bleeding waste… why did she have to do this? …

Alright, she’d come to mean something to him, more than he cared to admit, damn her! The fluffy little fool had grown on him.

As if she knew all the things he couldn’t admit, to either of them, she squeezed his hand once more before letting go to clench her small hands into a fists.

“…O-Okay, do it.”

She whimpered as he slid the needle into her neck.

Her wet rattling whine when he began the extraction was worse. Her whole body shuddered and convulsed against the grip of his power.

Baring his teeth and blinking furiously, Crowley forced himself to continue, sliding the plunger out, painfully, slowly, drawing out the luminous swirls of Grace.

Her heartbeat had started to grow unsteady, her failing breaths were growing fainter.

Despite himself, Crowley stopped. Pausing to mutter reassurances stroke a hand through the soft waves of her hair ~ as if she would ever want or need comfort from the likes of him, foolish, self-sacrificing, too clever for her own good, prophet.

Then, the front door banged open, making her dimming eyes fly open, try to focus; then widened in shock.

About time emergency services arrived!

“Mum??” A young voice called, and something small hurtled past him, slammed into, and plastered itself against the prophet’s chest. _“Mummy!”_

The prophet whimpered, “Ohhhh no… oh no, no, no… _Johnny…_ I didn’t see this…”

Her arms encircled the boy as pleading, horrified eyes met Crowley’s above the child’s head.

Fierce vindication flared in his core, a splutter of hope.

If there was one thing he knew, it was that she loved her children, more than anything else.

He watched her rally by sheer will power, and struggle to cradle the boy’s face in her hands, stare into his green eyes.   
Eyes like a mirror of her own.

She breathed words of love to the child, trying fruitlessly to sooth him. Told him over and over she was sorry.

So, so sorry.

“If you die here and now, in front of him, it will scar him for life,” Crowley warned her. “Ma Cherie, you can’t claim to love him if you do this to him.  
 _If you leave him alone!”_

For the first time since he found her on the floor bleeding, his little prophet looked truly wounded. Uncertain.

Her face crumpled, and her pale lips trembling with regret while tears welled to spill down her pale, freckle smattered cheeks.

“Make a deal. I can fix this! _We_ can fix this… _You don’t have to do this to him.  
_ We can _use_ your visions. Dodge fate, save the world and lock Lucifer away.” He waved a hand at the boy.  
“He can grow up never wanting for anything… They _all_ can.  
 _Just make a deal!”_

She winced, wavering.

“I _saw_ Crowley… I saw it all.”

“Not this, you said you didn’t see this, what other possibilities did you miss?” He argued desperately.

The child turned his head, looking between them with wide terrified eyes, his mothers’ eyes.

Then the boy lifted his chin, echoing his mother’s favourite gesture of stubborn defiance.

“Mum _does_ love me, don’t lie… She’ll love me til there are no more stars, I know that, like I know John 15: 12 and 13…” the boy asserted even as he cringed further against his dying mother’s chest.

“Make a deal.” Crowley insisted again, ignoring the boys words. “Live. For him, he _needs_ you, Pet. The world needs you.”

The little brunette’s hands soothed through her son’s hair and pulling him closer to leave a bloody benediction on his forehead. 

“Weren’t supposed to be here… Smartest kid in the world, … love you more than anything …” she whispered weakly, “would fight Heaven and Hell for you…. y’re my whole world, like ‘m yours…never… doubt it.”

Crowley clenched his teeth sensing bitter victory, she was going to make a deal.  
He had her.  
Yet something inside him struggled against the wrongness of the manipulation. A dirge like note of sour regret. She didn’t deserve Hell.

Michele pushed her son aside slightly, blood stained hands reaching instead for Crowley.

_“Choose this day…”_ Michele breathed the words softly and struggled to raise her face towards his...

But instead of kissing his lips to seal the deal, Michele’s mouth brushed his cheek and a flare of golden fire surged into him through the connection.

A torrent of flame edged images slammed into his brain.  
A tumble of phrases in Hebrew, Aramaic and Greek.

***

Crowley saw what the Prophet must have seen, a billion futures where she survived this day.

She’d stripped the photos of her family off the walls and let the British Man of Letters agent kill her, because if the British Men of Letters weren’t satisfied, and got involved, they became another tool that tortured her family. That was why she had trapped him in devil’s trap to stop him interfering with this happening.

She was a prophet of the Lord, she wasn’t ten steps ahead, she was a thousand, in every direction.

Yet Crowley watched Lucifer find her, always find her, if she lived past today, he’d resurrect her family as leverage.

The former King of Hell watched all the futures where Lucifer snuffed out everything he had come to grudgingly admire about his little prophet, he watched the archangel pound it all to dust under the insurmountable weight of his malice and manipulation. Until the bright-eyed, idealistic Little Mother became a monster willing to eat its own young.

Michele became a fulcrum that moved and destroyed the world, and all she held dear.

Her love _was_ her weakness, and it _would_ break her. Through her, it would break the Nephilim to.

Michele and Kelly Kline _had_ taught Lucifer’s child to love.

But Lucifer was clever, he had discovered long ago with Cain and Able how to turn love into an Achilles heel.  
The things Lucifer did to her and her family, to break her and his Nephilim son, it was no wonder she would choose death. No wonder to, that if she didn’t die today, she’d eventually beg the Nephilim to burn the world, and end it, rather than have it all continue…

***

Crowley saw himself die, again and again and again.

A dizzying array of death and fate.

Vaporised to dust.

Ripped slowly to shreds by his own hellhounds.

Stabbed with glacial slowness through the chest with an angel blade as he wept and pissed his pants.

Whittled to nothingness with Dean Winchester’s demon knife.

Burned out like a husk by Sam Winchester’s Demon blood powers after being drained again and again.

Weighed down immobile in the depths of the ocean, his vessel bloated and rotting, ignored until the world rolled up and blew away like the ashes of a burnt scroll.

Set ablaze by the boy Jack, at Lucifer’s command.

He died, as the Nephilim unravelled the world and returned all matter to a state of nothingness.

He died when the sun was sparked to supernova, making the whole world burn.

He stabbed himself in the gut with an angel blade.

Lucifer’s madness and anger at his father ran its course, unhindered and unanswered.

That was Lucifer’s only purpose, to destroy everything, nothing else had meaning to the archangel. Chaos and nihilism.

Even as Lucifer murdered him; Crowley saw how he was less than nothing in the eyes of the insane archangel.

Never, except once, in all of the many flashed shuffles of fate and destiny.

Every other time he died as Lucifer looked on with empty unsatisfied eyes, no matter his expression or words, underneath it all the Devil was simply going through the motions.

In most versions of the future, where he lived past the initial confrontation, Crowley saw himself reduced to nothing, dressed in rags and squalor, a cringing, broken, laughingstock without dignity, or hope, surrounded by mockery.

***

“Now… now you see.” She murmured against his ear. “Please Crowley …choose right.  
I _believe_ in you.”

As she spoke her hand found the Grace extraction device and forced the plunger higher, to draw the last drops of Grace out of her body.

…ooo0ooo…

Michele died, and with her death, branches of the future withered and died.

She slipped away, beyond Crowley’s ability to grasp.

Her chest faltered to stillness.

Her green eyes grew flat and lifeless with death.

Then, her embracing arms fell away from her son.

Trembling and traumatised, the boy continued to cling to his mother’s lifeless body, weeping mutely.

Crowley stood for a long time, looking down at the boy with green eyes, eyes that were a taunting facsimile of his mother’s; feeling a sucking inescapable weariness brought on by the visions which still reverberated through his head.


	116. A message from your sponsor

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 116: A message from your sponsor**

Endings are hard.

Any chapped-ass monkey with a keyboard can poop out a beginning, but endings are pretty impossible.

You try to tie up every loose end, but you never really can. The fans are always gonna bitch.

Foreshadow a thing way back in chapter 36, and people will still be shocked you went there.

There's always gonna be holes.

And since it's the ending, there’s an expectation it's all supposed to add up to something, neatly. But life is messy. I think that’s why my sister finds it so infuriating.

That’s what makes endings such a raging pain in the ass.

So, what's it all add up to? 

Some of you will believe this was a test... For a lot of people. Michele in particular.

Well you know what? That’s your choice, I’m all about allowing people their choices.

So, what do you think people?

Did Michele do all right?

I think she did. And since I’m God, I get to be the judge.

She got her, “Well done good and faithful servant,” moment from me, I can tell you that right now.

She did everything I hoped and more.

Got it more right than Abraham.

Michele never got the point I was trying to make with that story.

Abraham failed the test, I had to send an angel to toss him a ram at the last moment and stop that little travesty.

I mean seriously?! I told Abe his kid was going to be the beginning of a lineage that would be as countless as the stars in the sky. Abraham was old, had lived a full life, yet _still_ he couldn’t make the logic leap?

Yeah, not the sharpest tool in the draw!

But hey, Ol’ Abe was trying to please me, guy just couldn’t think outside the box.

Michele on the other hand took a page from a better play book.

Up against good, evil, angels, demons, and the future, she weighed her options, made her choices and found a way to protect her children. Took the consequences on herself.

She chose love. She chose her family. And, well... isn't that kinda the whole point?

It’s not an original plot line, yes.

When in doubt go with the classics, but you know what? There’s a good reason why it’s told over and over.

It’s what keeps humanity going, those moments when parents choose to put their children first and sacrifice everything for them.

When mercy and justice collide someone’s gotta take it on the chin.

There’s no redemption without the shedding of blood.

Yeah, I’ll admit it.

I play favorites, but my favorites don’t have cushy lives.

My favorites are my favorites, _because_ they have character enough to do the hard stuff.

Like Michele.

Like Sam and Dean.

A real friend can disagree with you.

A real hero decides what’s right, fights (or doesn’t) even if it means sacrificing themselves.

On my best days I like to believe that’s what inspired the whole thing with the cross.

Yeah – endings are hard.

But then again... nothing ever really ends, does it?

You thought I was going to leave you hanging?

What can I say, I’m not as cruel as a lot of people believe.

Michele, she always joked to her fan-fiction friends that every story ends the same way.

“They all died.”

But if you think on it, if you ever bothered to read the Bible, or followed my Supernatural books, you’ll know.

Death isn’t the end of the story…

After a person’s life on Earth ends, (especially if that person does my will, and happens to be a prophet, one who’s been drafted to write _my_ story,) their story continues. Ripples spread outward.

After a person’s days on this earth end, they influence others left behind, their choices inform other’s choices.

And so, their story inevitably continues.

Until the end. The real end.

Remember that parable about the footprints in the sand? In the tough bits there was only one set, not because the guy was alone, but because I carried him?

That didn’t actually happen.

I don’t go round lugging people up beaches on my back.

It was a poetic metaphor, I’m a writer after all, that’s why John called me The Word.

I do love a good metaphor.

It also says in the Bible (~ that 2000-year-old book, that is incidentally, _still_ a best seller.)

When I begin a good work with someone, I’ll complete it.

So, it’s a no brainer really, that I’ll complete this story.

I used 40 different authors to pen the bible, didn’t I?

Michele, she’s done enough, she deserves a bit of time to get to know the son that went to Heaven before he was even born.

Davi’ Chadwick has his mother’s eyes too.

We haven’t got to the end of this story.

So bare with me a little longer.

We will click that little check box that marks a fan-fiction story as complete.

Trust me.


	117. Drinking the Kool-Aid

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 117: Drinking the Kool-Aid**

Crowley slid the needle out of the dead prophet’s neck and dropped the apparatus back into its box, flipped it shut with a flick of his wrist and shoved it blindly back into his coat pocket.

Found and confiscated the prophets iPhone; then climbed to his feet and collected the valise of spell ingredients from the kitchen bench.

He should leave, he told himself, he had a job to do.

Instead, the demon found himself staring down at the boy, still clinging to his mother’s cooling corpse.

“I don’t have time for this!” He growled, then swore under his breath. Strode over to the sofa and stripped a blanket off it.

Swaddled, then lifted the bundled child into his arms.

“Come on MacGuffin. Who’d have thought it, but apparently, caring about child welfare is a blood born ailment. I know a bloke, helped your Mum out once. Didn’t know of course, but… well.” He shook his head in self-derision, “he’ll have something.”

The boy didn’t respond, but neither did he fight or struggle when Crowley transported them.

**…**

“Mr Barrett, long time no see!”

The paedophilic ex-priest jolted in shock at the sight of the demon.

“Mr Crowley… It’s, it’s not time!”

“Yes, yes. I find myself requiring assistance, of the pharmaceutically induced sort you use on your conquests.”

Robin Barrett stepped forward to stare at the blood smeared child in Crowley’s arms, eyes lit up with interest.

“If I might be so bold, I could just take the boy off your hands, no need for a memory wipe…” the ex priest reached out.  
Crowley found himself clutching the boy tighter, and suppressed a snarl, like a dog protecting its bone; jerked back, away from the pedophile’s grasping hands.

“Barrett, I don’t like you. Never have. I’m certainly not here to provide you with a new toy!” He grated. “Our deal was business. You became untouchable to any form of _human_ justice or retribution for your proclivities. Ten years, one soul. That was the deal.” Crowley gave the man a rough shove with his power, causing him to stumble backwards.

“Might I suggest you get on and give me what I require, and I’ll be on my way.  
Before, I’m tempted to use the glaringly _obvious_ loophole in your contract and make the world a better place.”

Barrett’s eyes narrowed behind his rimless glasses, “The boy must be valuable. Valuable enough _a demon_ would bother to wipe his memory rather than dispose of him.” He hazarded.

“By no means.” Crowley shrugged nonchalantly, watching Barrett, feeling increasingly impatient with the man as he watched him make his way to the kitchenette and root around, finding a tin of generic chocolate milk powder, a glass, pint of milk and a container of white pills.

“The kid’s what, six? Between forty and fifty-five pounds?” Barrett queried.

Crowley tilted his head considering the child’s weight. “Forty-seven, I’d say. Boy’s eight, just small, takes after his mother.” In his arms Johnny blinked out of his catatonia at the mention of his mother, and began struggling against the blanket’s embrace, letting out a series of small keening sounds.

Robin Barrett finished lacing a low-tide glass of chocolate milk with the tablets, crushed between two spoons.

Held out the glass, then drew it back.

“I give you this, and you give me another ten years.” Barrett bargained; his face was sly.  
“Business being business and all. I don’t like you either.” The pedophile smiled an edged smile.

Crowley snorted in derision, plucking the glass away from the pedophile’s hand using a thread of his power, shot it to his own hand with a showy flick of his wrist.

“I think not!” Hands free he pushed Barrett against the cabinetry, the paedophile thrashed and swore uselessly.

“How long does it take to work?” He asked and gave the man a shake. “How long?”

“Five minutes, knocks them out. They wake confused. No memory of the last 6 hours.” Robin Barrett gritted.

Crowley hummed thoughtfully and turned his attention back to the squirming child.

“Drink.” He commanded tilting the glass against the boy’s mouth.

The child had inherited more than pretty eyes from his mother. The ungrateful urchin clenched his jaw and turned his face away.

Crowley sighed, feeling put upon then forced the boy to look at him.

“Your Mum never wanted you to see her bleed out on the floor. She doesn’t want that trauma lodged behind your eyes for the rest of your life, boy.  
She believed I’m better than I am. I’m not a good guy, MacGuffin, but I’m the goodest guy you’ve got.” He pried the child’s mouth open and forced the laced milk down it with dispassionate care, ignoring the child’s struggles.  
“You don't get to say 'no' on this. If I want you to drink the bloody kool-aid… you drink!" He told the boy gruffly, struck by the poetic irony of having said the exact same words to the child’s mother on the day they met.

He wiped spilled milk from the child’s chin with a corner of the blanket and sighed wearily.

“So, you killed the boy’s mother and now you’re wiping his memory… Why? What's the point? It can’t be penance, you’re a demon. Was the woman your favorite whore? Is the boy?” Barrett laughed sneeringly.

Crowley raised an eyebrow and tilted his head slowly, a dangerous smile forming on his lips. “Some people don’t know when they’re skating on thin ice, they need to push things.” He gritted.

Clenching his fist, he choked off the pedophile’s laughter.

Then, glanced down at the boy and turned his body to obscure the child’s view.

Snapped his fingers. Exploded the ex-priest’s skull like a dropped melon, splattered the kitchen cabinets with lurid red.

“Can’t let the bad man say nasty things like that about your Mum or us, now can we lad?” He asked mildly.

**…**

Forcing his muscles to unlock Crowley relinquish the warm burden from his arms, laid the unconscious child across the reception desk, and stepped back.

“I believe this, belongs here. I found it.” He announced.

The school’s receptionist startled in shock; confused by the sudden appearance of a neatly dressed gentleman in the reception area.

She could have sworn the room had been empty the moment before.

moving closer she looked down at the large package the man had placed on the desk, trying to camouflage her jangled nerves with motion.

Then realised in sudden horror, the thing on the desk wasn’t a package. It was a child, wrapped up in a blanket.

She stepped still closer.

“Johnathan Chadwick?!” She identified the boy with a gasp, “How…” _how did you even manage to carry him in here?_ The boy had a terror of strangers…

“Oh god! Is that blood?”

_Did he get hit by a car? Please don’t let him be dead! I saw his mother drop him off this morning, she didn’t pick him up…she’d have signed him out…_

“How… I don’t understand… Johnny Chadwick …” _The boy was breathing. Oh thank god! But how badly was he hurt?_

The receptionist grabbed the phone and dialed 111 in a flurry of nervous terror, her mind racing.

_Johnny’s mother …shit, shit shit… the woman was nice enough, parent help, school trips, bake sales… but they all knew… She’d yelled at principal Grant last year, threatened to call the Ministry of Education, and she would! Who ever was responsible for this was going to lose their job for sure!_

The receptionist looked up to ask the stranger for details on what had happened, how and where he had found the child, to discover the man was gone; without making a sound or opening the door. Just gone!

…ooo0ooo…

North Cove, Washington again. Daylight to nighttime in a blink of an eye.

Crowley shrugged his shoulders feeling disorientated, in the space of an hour everything had changed.

Now he’d dealt with the child, his prophet’s child, he felt cut adrift.

What was the point?

He was doomed no matter what he did.

“Crowley! About freakin’ time!” Dean snarled coming to his feet.

“Did you get the Grace?” Sam demanded from behind his brother’s shoulder, face set in a scowl, and suddenly Crowley was caught by whiplash of a vision-memory.

***

Sam Winchester stood straight and tall, dressed in a pristine white suit from head to toe, his mouth curved into a cold distant smile as he surveyed a burning city.

“Looks like little Jackie Paper left the hospital standing again, wouldn’t know anything about that would you my dear?” He nudged at a figure cowering at his feet in supplication. Tilted his head and smiled down at it coldly.  
“You know how messy family meetings can get. Do you want that?”

“No…” the figure lifted a battered, emaciated face and shook her head fearfully.

Crowley’s little prophet was barely recognizable.

“Please Lucifer, _please!_ … stop this, just kill them all, kill me! End it. You don’t need me anymore.”

“Silly prophet, Daddy’s _favorite_ , broken little windup toy.” Lucifer chided her with Sam Winchester’s voice, and buried a large hand into her hair to jerk her head back roughly.

  
Lucifer looked down at the Prophet with callous glowing red eyes.

“I don’t NEED **anything**.  
I _like_ it… your tears, their screams, it never gets old.  
You’re more fun than Sammy was. He’s still in here you know, screaming and wiggling around… watching our special games.

Ahhhh.... seeing the world with you by my side… _it makes everything new. So much more fun._  
And then, you write it all down, _my good little Pet biographer_. Painting such delightful words, with all your blood and tears, just so I can enjoy it all over again.” He shook her roughly.

“Now, get up, and smile. Our boy will be back soon, and Mummy and Daddy need to remind him of a few things.  
Jack so adores you and his adopted siblings.  
He’ll listen to you, won’t he _ma Chérie.”_ She flinched at the name, and Lucifer smiled.

”You’ll tell him to respect His father, won’t you? It’s Biblical after all...  
Father is the head of the house; mother is the heart of the home.  
 _You know how you complete me!_ ” The Devil simpered mockingly,.  
“You have such a tender loving heart. And I have none.

Why, you even begged and cried for Crowley, didn’t you _Darling_? _Crowley!_ A demon ... _Seriously? W_ ho else but _you_ would cry so prettily, so very _pitifully,_ over something like _him_! Even Dad had his limits... but not you.”

***

“Crowley, hey!” Dean snapped his fingers repeatedly in front of Crowley’s face, “Sam asked you a question. Did you get the Grace?”

“Eh?” Crowley blinked at the brothers disorientated. 

  
_She’s dead, that won’t happen now, close the rift, lock the devil away… no one’s going to cry over me._

“Yes, yes, of course, I said I would, didn’t I? Where’s the trust?”

“‘cause you’re _s-o_ trustworthy.” Dean scoffed and slapped an angel blade against his palm threateningly.

“Dean,” Moose shook his head once at his brother.

“Listen to Moose, Squirrel. I’m the man with the plan, the only one with the spell to seal that rip, remember…”

“Remind me again what’s to stop him from closing the rift, while we’re still on the other side, with Lucifer, Sammy?” Dean asked.

The former King of Hell ground his teeth, “Because I’m going through ahead of you to set up the spell on the other side, _then_ _you get Lucifer to chase you through. Did you even read the plan?!_

I wouldn’t leave you over there alone with the Devil. You’re my Besties…

Besides, you two are like herpes.  
Impossible to get rid of. A pair of functional morons at best. Smart enough to find your way home, but not smart enough to avoid dragging Lucifer back after you like proverbial toilet paper stuck to your shoe.”

“We’re not your frickin’ Besties Crowley, and who are you calling a moron… you’re the _genius_ that thought he could keep the Devil on a leash insteada sending him to the cage, _like we planned_ ; then, screwed _that_ up, an’ ended up _hiding_ in a frickin’ rat!” Dean sneered contemptuously; and Crowley hid a wince at the hit.

Of course, the Winchester’s didn’t care.  
He didn’t have friends.

Behind them, in the house, Kelly let out another hoarse scream, and the lights flickered, while the rift pulsed and flared, giving off a sound that reminded Crowley of a tortured whale.

The devil was coming, and Kelly Kline wasn’t long for this world.

“Come on guys, we don’t have time for this!”

“So true, Samantha.” Crowley forced a smile. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must get to work. I’m _ever so_ fascinated by the chance to see a world where you two mutton-heads were never born.” He strode to the rift and thrust his hand into it, pretending more confidence than he felt.

Behind him Dean yelled something about horns, as the world turned inside out and he was squeezed through the eye of an atomic needle, then stretched out over the depths of infinity...   
Was finally spat out, feeling like an overtaxed rubber band.

All the color seemed to have been sucked out of the world before him, leaving it monochrome and flat, lurid lightning crackled and strobed overhead, through clouds of dust or smog, devoid of rain. 

“Doesn’t so much say post-apocalyptic, as scream it at the top of its lungs.” Crowley muttered drolly scuffing his shoe through the powdery, dead soil, and ambled over to examine one of the corpses that scattered the area.

The thing had horns and pointy teeth, was as ugly as sin, and had probably once been quasi-human. Now it was as lifeless and desiccated as the rest of the world.

“Can’t say I like what they did with the place. Makes Hell look homey.” Crowley muttered again, looking around for a suitable place to begin setting up his spell.


	118. Poetic Irony (the road so far)

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 118: Poetic Irony (the road so far)**

So, this was a world where the Winchester’s had never been born?

A world where the angels had found someone other than Dean Winchester to play the role of Righteous man and break the first seal.

According to Lilith, there had been a lot of potential candidates Hell lined up for the job of breaking that first seal, after God took Lucifer and locked him away.

A demon called Belial had been the first to lead the Lucifer loyalists in the scheme to break the 66 seals and release their creator.

Until, as Crowley heard it, the ballsup with a certain carpenter, one Jesus of Nazareth, who turned out to be Son of God and the Jew’s prophesied Messiah.

The tale of Belial’s folly was one of the stories they told all the toddler demons.

Belial bit off more than he could chew by engineering the crucifixion, it did allow a RIGHTOUS man into Hell.

Unfortunately, Jesus of Nazareth had been the Jew’s foretold Messiah.

He didn’t break, he Broke…. Both Belial and a whole circle of Hell.  
Which left Azazel and Lilith with one less competitor in the hirache, once all things were said and done.

Caveats were placed on the _degree_ of Righteous, the Righteous men _mustn’t_ exceed after that.

Yet Lilith and Azazel had continued with the same overall plan; forged on with the same general plan attempting to break the seals and release Lucifer.

So, it was here, in this godforsaken apocalypse world, someone else must have broken the first and last of the 66 seals; no Winchester’s required.  
The archangels, Lucifer and Michael had obviously found other non-Winchester vessels as well, and an apocalypse was had by all.

Crowley found himself wondering, if somewhere out there in this post-apocalyptic universe, there was another version of himself, a version that was still just a crossroads demon.

Did he envy or pity such a version of himself? One who had never risen to become King of Hell, one who had never been Winchestered or gone soft.   
One that had never been corrupted by the demon cure, or tempted by that impossible, unreachable lure of doing better, feeling something, or atoning for deeds one could never hope to ever pay for.

Crowley hummed in irritation at the pointless musings and turned his mind back resolutely to the task at hand.

He lifted the various spell ingredients out of the valise and arranged them into fastidious ranks on the barren earth, laid the part of the Tablet of Destinies he’d kept down beside everything else.

Then, grimacing in distaste, he picked up the urn of holy oil and walked back, past the dune that sheltered the spell workings from the view of the rift and paced around it, pouring out a thick stream of Holy oil onto the ground, to completely enclose the doorway. A flame would turn the ring into a barricade of holy fire.

It wouldn’t stop Lucifer permanently. But, as he’d outlined in his phone call and email to Sam after collecting everything but the Grace, it _should_ give the archangel pause, and give them precious time for the rift to close.

***

A black man in a long coat…  
No, an angel; one Crowley didn’t recognize, one that shorted and fizzled with damaged angelic grace staggered to his feet, turning to look out through the bloody eyes of his damaged vessel.

“The Devil won, that’s what happened!” He snarled.

***

Crowley flinched under the unexpected assault of the vision-memory and rubbed at his temples; the urn of Holy oil hung heavy from his other hand.

Would the Devil win?

Was all of this pointless?

The certainty of what he’d seen after that kiss, in those flame edged moments of illumination, was becoming blurred and muddled.

He found himself no longer capable of identifying how the things he’d seen fitted together within the grand scheme; if the prophet’s death, and the decisions he had already made, invalidated or led to the events in that fragment of vision.

Did all roads lead to Rome?

He _was still_ convinced that no matter what he did or tried he would die, always, that there was no escape. The only thing left for him to choose was the amount of time he had, the dignity he went out with, and if he got one last dig in at the devil.

Crowley walked back and crouched down in the dirt beside the ranks of spell ingredients, chose a smooth patch of earth and dug a hole with a hand-tool made of birch wood, then tossed in handfuls of brimstone, Myhhr, Solomon’s seal, High John tuber and Hypericum stems.

_“‘iibead almasar, shifa' altamazuq, sahhaha. ‘ughliq albab,”_ he chanted as he swept soil back into the hole and tamped it down.

Dusting off his hands, Crowley placed a small copper bowl above the buried items, then began to gouge out a circle in the soil, encircling the copper bowl, inscribed a five-pointed star within that, it’s points touching the circle; Created a pentical.

Moving carefully, the demon copied five sigils into the dirt outside the star but within the circle, one for each section, as shown on the Tablet of Destinies.

“ _shifa' – yashfaa” “kasr” “taqa” “rabt” “iitlaq sarah,”_ he chanted as he gouged the sigils into the dessicated soil; Poured out liquid mercury into each sigil and sat back on his haunches.

For a few moments the quick silver sat inert, mirroring back the dull monochrome landscape, tiny reflections of low cloud, and sickly red strobes of dry lightning.

Then, the liquid metal shivered, darkened to black and sank soundlessly into dead earth, the first offering received and swallowed up.

Satisfied, Crowley returning to the Tablet of Destinies and read over the instructions once more, lips shaping the ancient words silently as he familiarized himself with and memorized the spell.

Finally, he pulled the tin box containing the Grace extraction device out of his coat pocket and held it up, stood staring at its contents for a long time, thinking.

This Grace had once belonging to first angel Lucifer had deceived and ruined. Gadreel, the original chump. Failed protector of the garden of Eden. The one who had failed both God and humanity with his naivety and weakness, and had allowed Lucifer into the garden of Eden; where upon Lucifer had instigated humanity’s fall and had created demon kind.

Gadreel, had been jailed for Millennia, tortured by his brethren, had portions of his Grace forcibly torn out and used in experiments for his crime; used to attempt turning a proto prophet into heavenly champion, an answering weapon against Azazel’s, Hellish, demon blood infected, special children.

Meanwhile Sam Winchester, boy with the demon blood, and Lucifer’s one true vessel failed to live up to Lucifer’s, Heaven’s or Hell’s expectations.

Instead beating the Devil, and sacrificing himself, by tossing himself, Lucifer and Michael back into the cage in Hell. Sam had averted the apocalyptic showdown between Michael and Lucifer on earth, one which would have decimated humanity and everything else, as per the reality Crowley now found himself.

Then, Sam Winchester, the boy with the demon blood had gone one step further and attempted to complete the Hell trials and shut the gates of Hell.

Three tasks, killing a hell hound, saving an innocent soul from hell and curing a demon. The first two tasks completed, Sam and his brother had kidnapped Crowley. And Sam had begun the cure, injected Crowley over and over with Sam Winchester’s purified blood.

The attempt to close the gates of Hell had been stopped; not by demon kind, but by Sam’s older brother, breaker of the first seal, and Righteous man, who learned that closing the gates of Hell would lead to his younger brother’s death.

Meanwhile Metatron, fallen scribe of god and megalomaniac had tried a play out of Lucifer’s playbook, and decided he’d make a good replacement for his creator.

Metatron had duped Castiel, the Winchester’s pet angel into completing a set of ‘trials’ to shut the doors of heaven, with the declared purpose of protecting humanity.

A misrepresentation that ended with Metatron stealing Castiel’s grace, and a spell which turfed all the angels out of heaven to fall down onto the earth, where they predictably caused chaos, as all those injured, unhoused angels sought out human vessels and formed Waring factions.

The chaos from the fall allowed Gadreel to escape from his tormentors; and when a distraught Dean Winchester discovered his overgrown little brother had been damaged beyond medical intervention by the aborted trials; despite not finishing them, curing Crowley or shutting the gates of Hell. Dean reached out for celestial help.

With Castiel useless, a rampant case of poetic irony ensued, where Gadreel ended up inhabiting Sam Winchester without his knowledge to keep the man alive.

Sam Winchester, Lucifer’s one true vessel, was subverted and hijacked by the angel that the Devil had once disgraced and laid low.

Where upon Metatron took another page from Lucifer’s playbook and misled the angel Gadreel, now wearing Sam Winchester, into murdering Kevin Tran, pawn in Crowley’s plans, incumbent prophet of the Lord, keeper of the word of God and Sam and Dean Winchester’s reluctant and somewhat abused little friend.

Awash in human blood and sentimentality after the aborted cure, Crowley found uncomfortably that Kevin and the Winchester’s had grown on him, so he helped Dean and Castiel track and cast Gadreel out of Sam, and put a stop to Metatron’s megalomaniac folly. Crowley told himself the Winchester brothers were useful in his schemes to secure and hold onto the ultimate position in Hell’s hirache. They _were_ uncannily good at averting bloody end of the world cricies.

In the end, the Winchester’s had somehow convinced Gadreel to see Metatron for what he was, and the angel had sacrificed his life in a bid at some sort of redemption, trying to stop Metatron’s schemes and re-open heaven. 

So, Gadreel was dead, gone to wherever angels went after death.

Gone, except for the syringe of Grace Crowley now held in his hands. Grace which had been hidden away inside Michele Cherie Chadwick, proto prophet, whom the angels had experimented on, a child the angels had tried to turn into their heavenly champion, only to be discard as useless.

Yet the stone the builders rejected, became the cornerstone first a plan to beat the devil.

Just as the Jews and Belial failed to identify Jesus of Nazareth as the prophesied messiah, the angels and everyone else including Crowley had failed to see the soiled prophet for what she was. He had thought of her as leverage, one of the Winchester’s mildly irritating pets, yet somehow the insignificant little housewife had been a foil that had caused his own downfall.

***

**Τριγύρισαν πάνω του**

**από το αίμα του Αρνίου**

**και με το λόγο της μαρτυρίας τους.**

**δεν αγαπούσαν τόσο πολύ τη ζωή τους**

**για να συρρικνωθεί από το θάνατο.**

An echo rimmed in gold fire, the Greek words from the vision memory-vision seemed to hang before Crowley’s eyes. Filling his head and demanding that he unwillingly translate them.

( _They triumphed over the devil_

_by the blood of the Lamb_

_and by the word of their testimony;_

_they did not love their lives so much_

_as to shrink from death.)_

***

**Και γνωρίζουμε ότι για όσους αγαπούν τον Θεό, δηλαδή για όσους ονομάζονται σύμφωνα με τον σκοπό του, όλα λειτουργούν από κοινού για καλό**

_(And we know that for those who love God, that is, for those who are called according to his purpose, all things are working together for good)_

***

Michele was the source of the Grace Crowley now intended to use (if the plan succeeded) to shut Lucifer away in this dead parallel reality, a reality already ruined by a war between Heaven and Hell. So with poetic irony, Gadreel would become key in an attempt to thwart the Devil.

***

**_Για όσους θέλουν να σώσουν τη ζωή τους, θα το χάσουν, αλλά όποιος χάνει τη ζωή τους για μένα θα το βρει._ **

_(For whoever wants to save their life will lose it, but whoever loses their life for me will find it)_

_***_

The demon shuddered, stumbling back a step and gritted his teeth.

It appeared his little Prophet, Ma Cherie, last carrier of Gadreel’s Grace, continued to preach at him - even now, after her death.

_Lovely_ , he thought feeling a species of irritation, suspiciously stained with nostalgia.

Holding up the Grace extraction device Crowley clenched his jaw and eyed the Grace again with a clench in his gut. 

The sooner this was over the better.

The demon crouched down and depressed the plunger to release the luminous swirls of angelic Grace into the topmost point to the pentical.

_“Malak niemat lilruwh,”_ he recited the words from the Tablet of Destinies gruffly; and stepped to the left, withershins.

Poured Silphium incense into the next point of the star.

_“albikhur alsylfywm litakrim alhawa'”_ he chanted and breathed in the sharp burnt cinnamon and fennel scent.

Stepping to the left once more and tipped Goofer dust carefully from a jar into the next point.

Blinked against a memory of sunshine, water, and quacking ducks, all overlaid by the scent of ground black pepper.

_(“No, I assure you it's black pepper. Besides I'm not a Hell Hound, Love. Where did you get this 'Goofer dust?”_

_"I … uh… bought it online…?"_

_"Of course, you did!_

_You got had, Pet. First rule of hoodoo: Don't buy supplies online.”)_

The demon cleared his throat harshly, and scrubbed at the scruffy beard surrounding his mouth, irritated by the tightness in his throat.

_“Alturabat alkhatirat almawhubin ealaa al'ard,”_ he chanted.

Scattered Phoenix ash into the next point of the pentical to the left.

_“Ramad tayir alniyran aldhy yartafie maratan 'ukhraa hadiatan 'iilaa alniyran,”_ he intoned and stepped once more withershins; to tip a vial of water from the fountain of youth into the vertices to the right of where he’d released the Grace.

_“Rbye bimini lilmiah!”_

As the last word left his mouth, the ingredients he had poured into the channels spread out along the lines, meshing together like a group of 5 children joining hands before a dance, briefly a ripple of white heatless fire raced around the star and circular lines of the pentical, power charged the workings.

Now, there was just one final step, one last set of ingredients to add into that central copper bowl then the rift would heal and seal the two universes off from each other again.

Now he had to wait for the Winchester’s and their persuing devil.

With a weary sigh Crowley drew out his prophet’s iPhone from his pocket and unlocked it.

Unsurprisingly she _still_ hadn’t installed any passwords.

Crowley settled into the bittersweet nostalgia of examining the prophet’s phone whilst waiting for the Winchesters and Castiel to arrive chased by the devil.

…ooo0ooo…

Dean strode back through the cabin’s door, and Sam followed him.

“Crowley’s back.  
He got the Grace, dunno where, but hey! I’ve stopped tryin’ to work him out. Anyway, he’s settin’ up on the other side.  
How’s Kelly doin’?”

There was another scream from upstairs.  
Castiel raised his eyes to the roof above, then stared unnervingly at Dean for a while with a pained look on his face.

“She is in a lot of pain from the pressure waves, which is to be expected when attempting to deliver a baby. But she is also dying, because this baby is a Nephilim, Dean.”

“We know Cas…” Dean rubbed at the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Mom with her?”

“Yes… Kelly appears to find the presence of another female at this time … comforting.”

“Guess it’s having someone who’s done the whole…” Sam fidgeted nervously, and let his voice fade out.

“Kelly know Lucifer’s back?” Dean asked bluntly and Sam repressed a shudder at the name.

“I haven’t informed her yet.”

“Seriously Dude! She needs to know… in case. Ya know…”

Castiel let out a breath and straightened his shoulders turning towards the stairs. “I had hoped it wouldn’t be necessary, but perhaps you are correct.”

_(“You're going to find Castiel and Kelly in North Cove, but Lucifer won't be far behind you. He can't get his hands on Kelly's child! If he does, the world burns.”)_

Michele’s words from the dream echoed unnervingly in Sam’s memory.

“It’s better she and Mom know everything Cas… just in case.” He huffed a breath. “We’re all going through that rift, trusting Crowley’s plan. We’re only going to have a couple minutes notice tops, when Lucifer gets here…”

“I’ll talk to her.” The angel nodded once and turned to walk back up the stairs.

Dean began to check their weapons, loaded and handed Sam his gun.

“You ready?” He asked.

“Nope; when has that ever stopped us?” Sam gave his brother a shrug and tight grimace.

“Yeah.” His brother agreed with a sour smile. “You know, Cas has faith in this kid…”

Sam grunted in response, he still had so many misgivings about the son of Lucifer, despite what Castiel had told them, about Kelly no longer setting bibles on fire just by touching them.

“I hope he's right. But me? I have faith in us. You, me, Mom, Cas. And Crowley… _Sometimes_.”

“Mm.” Sam answered again noncommittally. But really, if they got Lucifer out of the picture, how much damage could a baby do? If the kid showed any signs of being like its father, they’d de-Grace it … or something.

“This is gonna work. It has to.”


	119. Nothing Else Matters

** The Thing You Hate  **

**Chapter 119: Nothing Else Matters**

Kelly gripped Mary’s hands and blew out a low breath as the latest round of contractions petered out.

There was a knock on the bedroom door.

“May I speak with her?” Castiel asked, hesitating there outside the door.

“Sure.” Mary let go of her hands and started to rise. Kelly found herself clutching at them feeling panicked. “Mary?!”

“I'll be back…. Okay?” Mary smiled at her and gave her hand another quick squeeze as she stood.

“Okay...” Kelly nodded, reluctantly, releasing her hand, to let the other woman leave.

Mary crossed the room and brushed by Castiel in the doorway without looking at the angel.

Kelly turned her attention back to Castiel, noticed again how awkward and uncomfortable he suddenly seemed.

“Cas... what's wrong?

“I need to tell you something.”

“Lucifer’s back.” Kelly said and bit her lip, lay a nervous hand over her stomach; shuddering at the memory, of Rooney’s hands tight around her throat, choking the breath out of her.  
“Mary told me.” She added, and gazed up at Castiel’s tense face, seeing there was some other bad news as well.

“Did Mary also tell you that Lucifer wants to raise your child?” he asked.

Kelly stared at Castiel, wrapping her arms around her middle tightly, hugged her son. “No, no. No she didn’t. Why?” she asked horrified, “… It’s not like he…”

“Power Kelly. Your child… Jack… he has vast potential power. According to lore, that power will eventually grow to exceed that of Lucifer himself.” Castiel looked at her with evident regret. Seated himself beside her on the bed and wrapped cool hands around her hot clammy ones, no doubt as he had observed Mary doing, hoping to bring her some small measure of comfort with the gesture.

“We have a plan.” He told her gently, trying to sound reassuring, but Kelly found it hard to feel reassured.  
“As the child’s birth draws nearer … the rencounter of forces has punctured the fabric of this universe.” Kelly blinked up at the angel in shock, “… the plan is to lure Lucifer through that tear, and into the parallel universe on the other side. Then seal him there using a spell.”

“Cas… that … It sounds … dangerous.”

“Travel through the rift appears to have no ill effects, and since I am unable to oppose an archangel and prevail, there are few other options, Kelly.” Castiel drew a breath, “We do not have another way to force Lucifer out of his current vessel without the hyperbolic pulse generator. And the spell to send Lucifer back into the cage would not be effective so long as Lucifer remains within a human vessel.” Castiel stopped himself, probably worried he would scare her more.

“I believe this plan will work,” he added.  
“I have… faith. I promised to protect you and your child, and I will. Mary will remain with you while I am absent.”

Kelly looked up at him with wide eyes, her free hand rubbing restlessly back and forth over the rounded form of her boy curled within her body, barely started on his entrance into the world.

“Thank you Castiel… But in case … you aren’t here, when…” She lowered her eyes and felt the side of her mouth quiver.  
“I want … I made a message for Jack… so I can tell him how much I love him. It’s there, on the white memory stick.” She pointed to the small device on the bedside draws. “When he’s old enough to understand… play it for him… tell him the stories I told you about his family and where he came from… Who I was…. Tell him, tell him I would have given _anything_ not to have left him… That, that I love him… and believe _he will be a gift to this world_ , he will make it a _better_ place … tell him what his name means, Cas…” Kelly stopped herself from saying more, afraid she would burst into tears. She needed to be brave. Surely God had a plan and everything would be okay. 

“I will. I promise you Kelly.” Castiel vowed his blue eyes solemn and serious. “I will do my best to help him understand how kind, brave and strong, you, his mother was… are.”

Kelly looked up at him with tear filled eyes. 

“ _I know you will, Cas_.” She whispered, her voice breaking “Just _please_ … be careful.”

“Don't worry. It will be fine.” Castiel stood, stooped and kissed the top her head, stroked a hand, just once through her hair, and paused to look at her solemnly again.

“Remember– Paradise!” He reminded them both and attempted a smile, picking up the memory stick from where it sat, placed it into the pocket of his trench coat and turned.  
Kelly hoped she would see him again before the end, wished selfishly he wouldn’t have to leave her to die with no one but a woman she’d only just met. No matter how nice Mary had been.

She bit her lip again and lifted her eyes resolutely, waiting for Mary’s return, waiting to give her life for her son.

…ooo0ooo…

Crowley frowned down at the iPhone in his hand. Michele had done a lot of writing since their morning at the beachside playground. His hand crept into his pocket to grip the seashell there, and let out a long breath.

His little prophet’s story had grown from ninety-nine to one-hundred-and-sixteen chapters.

It seemed an exceedingly long time since he had stood in her kitchen that first time, with the muffled taste of chocolate cupcake batter filling his mouth and told her he wanted to know how the story ended.

…ooo0ooo…

Castiel walked down the stairs and froze.

“He’s here.” He gritted.

“Well! Guess this is it.” Dean tossed Sam a tense grin.  
“Gotta say, worse case— facin’ off against Lucifer with a submachine gun, in MadMax world. It’s a step up on suffocating in the freaking bunker!”

Sam grunted at the sentiment and Castiel frowned, but didn’t ask, he moved past the brothers and stepped out of the front door, into the night, face resolutely forward.

Dean followed.

After a moment’s internal battle, Sam did likewise.

Walking down the front steps with his gut churning in terror, Sam straightened his shoulders and stepped out to confront his tormentor, the Devil, once more.

“Well... this is a fun surprise.” Lucifer taunted, rubbing his hands together in glee as he eyed them all.

Facing off between him and Dean, Castiel let his angel blade drop into his hand.

Lucifer eyed the blade and bit his lip smirking delightedly.

“I gotta hand it to you guys. You never give up, even when you should. Even when it would be so stupid not to.”

“Look, whatever you're planning on doing, Chuck...God, will stop you, just like he did last time.”  
Sam swallowed, belatedly mortified by how like a middle schooler in the midst of a school yard confrontation he sounded.  
Deep-down he suspected (like so often in his childhood,) that there wouldn’t be anyone bigger stepping in to save the day, that all he had was bluff and false bravado.

“You're right.” Lucifer looked around, shiftily, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “What should I do? _Oh, God! Don't strike me dead!”_ He mocked cringing in fake theatrical terror, then sniggered.  
“Come on, Sam. You sound like a virgin in Jesus camp. ‘ _We can't. God is watching_.’ No. Chuck ‘walked’.” He informed them snidely. “He's _gone_.”

“So, you're just gonna… smash His toys?” Dean challenged.

“Exactly.” Lucifer agreed with a shrug, “'cause every time I look at this sad trash fire of a world, you know what I keep thinking? _I could do so much better_.”

“So, Apocalypse, take two. _That's_ your plan?” Dean asked, his eyebrows pinched in disbelief.

“When in doubt, go with the classics, that's what I always say.  
Well, boys, enough with the foreplay.” Lucifer bit his lip again avidly, “ _let's do this!”_

__

Dean glanced at him and their best friend. “See you on the other side, boys.” He muttered gruffly and swallowed, worry evident.

Castiel glanced at them both briefly, then charged at Lucifer with his angel blade.

Lucifer simply batted him aside, like he was nothing.

Castiel lay in the dirt stunned, and didn’t get up.

“Well, that worked.” Lucifer chuckled cheerily.

He and Dean looked at their friend in disbelief, then shared a look. And took off running, toward the back of the house.

...ooo0ooo...

“Mature.” Lucifer chided “… _Real mature!_ ” He called out and strolled leisurely around the side of the house, following the brothers at his own pace.  
He was an angel, there was no where they could run from him.  
If they thought running to _that car_ again, would help. They were mistaken!

This time he was going to finger-paint Dean’s brains onto it’s pretty black paintwork and make Sammy lick them off.

“ _You guys?_ I really want to enjoy this! Really wanna savour just ripping you apart, gettin' all up in there, and gettin' all gooey.

But, you know, little slugger's almost here and, uh... Well, I'm on the clock...”

He stalked around the back of the building to see Sam and Dean standing beside a glowing slash that hovered in mid-air, the anomaly moaned with tantalising, almost familiar, celestial power.

As Lucifer watched, Sam and Dean both eyed him challengingly and lifted a hand each, plunging them into the gold luminescence.

There was a surge of power, and a strange sensation inside Lucifer’s being, like that time he flew too close to an exploded star. Then the Winchester’s were sucked away.

“Interesting.” Lucifer murmured, stalking forward, drawn to follow the Winchester’s lead, and chase them down.  
See what amusing little end of the line trick the Winchester brothers would pull out of the bag this one last time, before he finally wiped the board of them and won the game.

…ooo0ooo…

“Mm. Nice.” Lucifer murmured appreciatively, as he surveyed the dead world where he now found himself, it was scattered with a selection of charmingly decayed corpses, and imposing metal spiked architecture which some artistic soul had embellished with the occasional twisted desiccated corpse; all fetchingly illuminated by ruddy strobes of delightful atmospheric lightning.

“You wanted the Apocalypse? You got it.” Little Sammy spoke from where he stood, his feet braced wide on the powdery earth, his face all tense and tantalizingly frightened. Good times.

“Sammy. Hey.” Lucifer purred eyeing him. “Where's your big bro?” He asked, looking around.

“Right here.” Dean spat from behind him. He turned to see the elder Winchester cradling some sort of submachine gun. How pitifully cute and laughable. Brute force and ignorance, you could always hand it to Dean. So predictable!

“Ooh. Sweet toy.” He mocked and allowed himself a delicious little shrug of anticipation.

“Yeah, I got it off an old– new pal of mine. See, we have this bet, see if it works against an archangel. So... _say hello to my little friend.”_ Yes, Dean was always one with the film quotes.

Dean opened fire with the toy and Lucifer was pleasantly surprised to realize the bullets actually stung, a tiny bit, as they tore into his vessel’s chest.  
Just a tiny bit, mind you, it was almost titillating.

Then the gun jammed, or ran out of bullets, and they could finally get on with the real dance, up close and personal, how he always wanted things.

Finally! that satisfying sensation of his fists pummeling Michael’s one true vessel again!  
~ It was the grand plan, after all. Michael might be AWOL, yet Father _had_ to be happy with the symmetry of the thing, how he and Deanó still ended up _here_ in the end.

…ooo0ooo…

When the rift pulsed, Crowley pulled his eyes away from the cell phone wiping at his face guiltily (damn dust) and shoved the prophet’s phone back into his pocket.  
Raised his other hand at the Winchester boys in greeting.

Sam nodded in response, while Dean snatched up the automatic weapon; apparently, he’d obtained it from the _Bobby Singer_ of this godforsaken apocalypse world.

It was supposedly loaded with bullets made from old angel blades, a concept Dean had, rather tactlessly Crowley thought, drooled over at length.

Crowley hadn’t bothered to inform Squirrel that he’d had something similar in his possession for years. Had even used it to shoot Castiel once, during the faroe over the Angel Tablet.

A moment later, Lucifer appeared through the rift and looked around.

Crowley crouched back down and surveyed the spell.

  
Show time!

He opened the container of mercury again, poured the remainder into the central copper bowl, covered it in lamb’s blood as he heard Dean open fire on Lucifer beyond his dune.

Then Moose lurched over on his too long legs.

“Took you long enough!” He muttered at him. tossing a lump of myrrh into the bowl.

“Not now, Crowley. Come on.” Sam ordered rudely as if it was _him_ who had held things up.

“We do this ritual, we seal that rift, and we lock the Devil in this godforsaken place. That's the plan, remember? Two birds, one spell...”

“Right, right. Just hurry.” Sam turned away from him and peered over the dune at his brother.”

“Look Sam, I have to tell you something, about the Grace…”

Sam grunted unresponsively, his eyes fixed on whatever his brother was up to with Lucifer, not caring what Crowley was trying to tell him.  
Because _of course_ nothing else mattered to Sam but his big brother!

How many people had died over the years because of the Winchester brother’s co-dependent obsession with each other? It had no bloody room for anyone else.

Kevin Tran, Bobby Singer, that atheist Chemistry teacher -what’s his name, so many others…. and now ma Cherie… all dead, all disposable tools barely afforded notice.

Sam hated him, Crowley knew that, had accepted it long ago, had even it underlined again when he read Michele’s last chapters. He’d read how jealous the boy was, of the poor meagre scraps of attention Dean dared focus anywhere but _on his little brother_.

Crowley wondered what madness had prompted him to think of trying to tell Sam about the Prophet’s death. It was a moronic idea!

He’d only have a fit and blame Crowley for her death.

Forget that it was Sam Bloody Winchester who let the damnable Men of Letters find out about _their_ prophet in the first place, ( _yes! THEIR PROPHET_ , her loss wasn’t the _sole property_ of Sam Bloody Winchester!  
Though _of course_ Sam wouldn’t think that way.) She’d have _survived the Grace extraction_ without that poisoned blade, Crowley knew it! He’d have made sure.  
She wouldn’t have died, bleeding out while Crowley and her 8-year-old son watched.  
He _knew_ her feelings on suicide, she wouldn’t have ….  
If **_Sam_ **hadn’t been stupid enough to let the Men of Letters bug the bunker and listen in on all his effing Skype calls with her, she’d be reading books to her doaty wee tyke right now!

The Winchester’s never really cared about anyone but each other!

Sure, yes, Sam might wring his hands, he might even shed some tears over her death, but he wouldn’t _change_. What had Michele said? There was no forgiveness without repentance, that repentance meant turning away and choosing to _stop_ past behaviour.

Michele had _really cared_ about Sam Winchester ** _, a thousand times more than she had ever cared for him, Crowley_**. But amazingly, she **_had_ **cared about Crowley too… he knew it… he’d felt it, read it.  
She’d tended his wounds and believed he might be redeemable …

It was silly and naïve, considering Crowley’s _own mother_ couldn’t manage those things, (even 300 years ago when he’d been Fergus Macleod, a small undernourished redheaded human child.)

Crowley could admit it.  
He _had_ valued Michele’s misguided belief in him, he’d found some tiny glimmer of hope in it.

And now… because of _Sam Winchester’s selfishness and incompetence_ , Michele was dead.  
That small glimmer of hope had died with her, as well as Crowley’s grand plan to use the Nephilim as a weapon. Both were irretrievable.  
_Because of Sam Holier-than-thou-bleeding Winchester!_

Crowley felt a spike of rage as he stared at the younger Winchester brother.

Sam Winchester had left him _nothing_ , no recourse but an angel blade and a pitiful moment of vengeance, one pathetic last dig at Lucifer.

No one would beg for, or mourn for, Crowley now.

_Sam definitely wouldn’t!_

The spell to close the rift required a sacrificial life, a small fact he’d kept to himself.

But, _why_ had he thought it needed to be _his_ life?  
Crowley failed to remember the logic behind that now.

_Why_ had he thought _he_ was the disposable one? Because he was destined to die anyway? _Bah!_  
He was Crowley, King of Hell, a survivor, a bloody demon!  
Not another one of Sam Winchester’s poor, sappy, self-sacrificing, disposable tools.

He could kill Sam and be on the other side of that rip in no time.

He could use Sam’s life to still seal Lucifer here in this Godforsaken place, travel back through the rift before it closed, and then he could get his position back as King of Hell.  
Michele hadn’t seen everything...

Crowley eyed Sam’s back and let the angel blade drop into his hand.


	120. Bye Boys

** The Thing You Hate **

**Chapter 120: Bye Boys**

Crowley eyed Sam’s back and let the angel blade drop into his hand.

_(“Please Crowley! Choose …right…")_

The words were as clear in his memory, as if the little prophet had spoken them right next to his ear again. It seemed for a moment, that the subtle scent of her citrus shampoo flirted at the edge of his senses …And then, a series of gold rimmed images, fired lightning quick, through his memory again, like the reverb of an acid flashback.

_***_

Sam Winchester’s body lay in the dark, his eyes flat with death, his throat lacerated by a gaping hole. Black blood clotted and soaked into his clothes and the dirt around his big body...

***

Mary Winchester walked towards Dean and pulled him into her arms, a smile of relief and joy splitting her face.

Dean half collapsed into his mother’s arms like a puppet with its strings cut, looking as though he was fighting not to cry.

  
  
Mary leaned out of the hug and looked around confused, then up into Dean’s face again.

Her smile slid away as she realized something was wrong. Dean just stared dully at his mother; his eyes shiny with unshed tears.

“Dean...” Mary asked, “where’s Sam?”

Finally, a tear welled and slid down Dean’s cheek.  
He looked away from his mother for a second, his lips trembling, but seemed unable to speak.

Mary’s face fell, as she realized what Sam’s absence, Dean’s struggling muteness and tears had to mean.

***

Sam took a huge gasping breath, sitting up.

  
Eyes wide in shock as he gulped ragged lungful’s of air, like someone revived from drowning.

Bemused and confused he sat there, panting for air.  
His hand scrambled up to his throat and pawed at his gore encrusted, but intact, flesh there, in obvious disbelief.

Scrambling to his feet Sam stared at his hands and shirt, covered in tacky clotted blood, his confusion written plain.   
Continued to paw at the flesh of his throat as he looked around at his surroundings in confusion.

Suddenly, Lucifer leaned out of the shadows, a flashlight shining up into his face like a camper telling a ghost story.

“Boo!”

Sam gasped in shocked terror and jerked back, away from Lucifer.

Lucifer laughed in delight and turned off the flashlight.

“Hey, Sammy.” He said easily.

“No!” Sam gasped, eyes wide and glistening tears of shock and terror.

Lucifer grinned lazily at him, winding a finger around a dangling spider web.

“Yeah! I mean, you could do the whole pinch yourself, rub your eyes thing— Or you could put on your big boy pants and just, you know, cut right to the realisation that yep, it’s me.”

Sam stared at Lucifer in disbelief “Y-you –“he gasped, horror written large, “you...You brought me back?!”

Lucifer stood casually, and approached, smirking that smirk, Crowley knew so well, and ran his fingers idly over a nearby pillar.

“I did. _You’re welcome._ ”

“Why?”

Lucifer grinned, “Oh, well… I’m getting to that.”

***

Sam Winchester stood, wearing the pristine white suit Crowley had come to associate with Lucifer. Facing Dean, with his features smooth and oddly placid.

“ _I'm sorry._ It must be _painful_ , speaking to me in this—shape.  
But it _had_ to be your brother. It had to be.” Lucifer spoke, using Sam’s mouth, he looked at Dean with that placid serene, veneer of compassion on his face; then, reached out to lay a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean flinched back, away from the touch.

In response Sam-Lucifer’s face twitched, a quickly repressed look of fury flitting over his face as he clenched his extended hand into a fist and let it drop to his side.

“You don't have to be afraid of me, Dean.” Lucifer spoke again, giving him Sam’s signature kicked puppy expression, but there was an absence to it that even Crowley could see.

  
“What do you think I'm going to do?” Lucifer asked, and walked past Dean, to examine a rosebush with counterfeit interest.

“I don't know. Maybe deep-fry the planet?” Dean spat.

Sam-Lucifer’s eyes flashed red, a barely controlled expression of fury flitted over his face again; when he turned back to face Dean once more his face was an earnest Sam-mask, though his lips twitched once in a tiny aborted snarl.

He tilted his head, smooth brow creasing with Sam’s sad beagle frown. Lucifer breathed out a low breath and turned away.

“Goodbye Dean.” Sam-Lucifer spoke through a jaw clenched with effort. “We'll meet again… soon.” He favored the elder Winchester brother with a falsely serene smile, edged in mockery, and began to walk away.

“You better kill me now!” Dean spat desperately and took a step after him.

Lucifer turned back towards Dean and raised his brows. “Pardon?”

“You better kill me now. Or I swear, I will find a way to kill you. And I won't stop.”

“I know you won't. Like I always knew you wouldn’t say yes to Michael.

But _you won't kill Sammy, will you_.” He ran his hand down Sam’s chest with a smile, “You can’t! Whatever you do, you will always end up here. Whatever choices you make, whatever details you alter, we will always end up—here. I win…” Forgetting his act he smiled with real cutting malice at Dean. “So, I win.”

“You're wrong.” Dean spat furiously, but Crowley could see the lie. The one thing Dean was incapable of doing was sacrificing his brother.

***

Sam stood shaking and panting like he’d been in a fight.

Across from him stood a young man with a bloody face, one that had sandy hair and a resemblance to an older version of Crowley’s Prophet’s son, Johnny, but puzzlingly the young man didn’t have Michele’s eyes.

Sam gripped a golden angel blade in his fist, hesitated for several seconds as if fighting something, then he turned the handle of the blade towards the boy.

“Kill me.”

“What?” The boy asked staring at Sam in shock.

“Kill me. ” Sam demanded again. “You can stop him, Jack.”

_(The boy wasn’t the Prophet’s son; he was Kelly Kline’s?!)_

Sam placed the blade into the boy Jack’s hands. “You can get your power back.” He told the lad with a much more earnest look than the one Crowley had seen on white clad Lucifer-Sam’s face.

“No,” the boy argued, “I-I c-can't. I can't beat him. But... you can.” The boy took the blade and backed away.

“What?” Sam demanded; his voice strained with a sudden flayed horror.

“I know you can.” The boy asserted.

Sam stared at the boy in horror. “No, no, no, no, no. Jack.

Don't! Jack!”

Jack turned the blade point to his chest.

“Jack!” Sam pleaded again, “JACK!” It was an order to stop, and a denial of the boy’s words.

Jack gazed up at Sam, “I love you.” He declared earnestly.

“I love _all_ of you.”

“Jack, don't! Don't!” Sam begged as the boy winced and pushed the tip of the blade into himself, making blood bloom.

***

Lucifer, not inside Sam, but inside the blonde Nick-vessel Crowley had put him in, faced off with the boy Jack.

“Oh, buddy. We could've been something, you and me.  
We could've remade the universe. It would've been great. We could've been better gods than Dad.” Lucifer fumed.  
“…And I _really_ wanted that, pal. I wanted that! But now, if I can't have it with you, I _... I don't need ya.  
_ I just need your power.”

Quick as a flash, Lucifer produced a golden angel blade and slashed out, slicing into Jacks throat, pulled the boy close and sucked in, swallowing down gulps of the Nephilim’s Grace.

***

Dean Winchester and Lucifer-in-the-Nick-vessel grappled mid-air; in an echoing space ringed by stained glass windows. Trading punches.

To Crowley’s sight both combatants sparked and flared with barely contained angelic energy.

( _Dean was housing and angel? Or was this something to do with the thing with Kelly Kline’s, Nephilim son? How, why? Crowley couldn’t follow.)_

But it seemed not to matter, who or what rode inside of Dean, Lucifer had the upper hand, his fist pummeled again and again into Dean’s face.

“Well, good try, Dean. I'll give you that, buddy.” Lucifer-Nick taunted him between blows, “But I'm not just powerful now. _I am power_.” He hissed in vicious joy.

Below the grappling fighters, Sam Winchester darted forward from the shadows, and picked up a fallen gold angel blade.

“…And I don't need a blade to end you, pal.” Lucifer boasted.

“Dean!” Sam yelled, throwing the angel blade up into the air.

“Bye-bye, Dean!” Lucifer gloated; eyes aglow as he slapped his hand down onto Dean's forehead. Smiting him as he hung limp from Lucifer’s fist.

White light burst from Dean's eyes and mouth….

But then, Dean’s hand closed around the angel-blade his brother had thrown, almost on autopilot, somehow guided by that Winchester synchronicity Crowley had watched, reviled and envied for years. Dean thrust the blade up and into Lucifer’s gut,

Lucifer screeched ear-splittingly and fell. Flames erupting from his eyes, mouth, and the wound in his gut.

The stained glass shattered in an explosion of force, and a sooty shadow of angel wings seared onto the floor under the body Crowley had once repaired and rebuilt painstakingly as a prison for Lucifer.

***

Crowley blinked and sucked a breath, his heart pounding inside his chest almost as though he were human, he looked down at the angel blade in his hand and gulped.

_(“Close the rift, lock him away! Save my family. Please Crowley! Choose …right…”)_

The demon slid the angel blade back out of sight with an unsteady hand.

How could he have forgotten? The snippets of vision were disjointed, and Crowley struggled to understand how they could fit together. But how could he have considered it, even for a moment…

_("Is winning all you care about? No matter how you play it YOU can't win the game you've begun.")_

Was winning all he cared about? Crowley showed his teeth in a smile that was more like a grimace… _He_ couldn’t win the game against Lucifer he’d begun when he diverted him from the cage, he’d heard it from the lips hijacked by God … But maybe, _possibly_ , in some branch of the future, the Winchester’s could.

Across from him Sam tore his attention away from Dean, turned toward Crowley and crouched down to help with the spell.

Crowley shook off his inactivity and opened the vial of Dead Sea brine and poured it into the bowl.

“Uh, Dead Sea brine,” Sam watched Crowley pour out the salt, checking things off, “uh, mercury, lamb's blood?” Sam’s eyes fell to the urn of Holy oil, lifted and poured it into the bowl trying to hurry Crowley along, “holy oil... Here we go.

That's the last of it? That's everything!”

“No, it's not.” Crowley gritted.

“What?!”

“If we wanna seal that rip, we need one more minor ingredient.”

“– What?” Sam asked in shock.

“A life.” Crowley informed him, climbing to his feet and stalked past Sam.

Lucifer had Dean on the ground kicking him brutally. He watched him rolled over and spit a mouthful of blood into the dust, wheezing in pain.

“Ah, I could do this all day.” Lucifer mocked leaning over into Dean’s face. “ _You make such funny noises_.”

Crowley waved a hand and flung Lucifer away from the hunter.

Cleared his throat to draw Lucifer’s attention.

“Surprise!” He announced, squaring himself to face off with the Devil.

Lucifer looked up at the interruption, surprised.

  
  
“Crowley?!” Lucifer called rolling onto his back, laughing and kicking his legs in delight, like an overjoyed toddler. “ _You sneaky little..._ So, I guess I get to kill you twice, huh, Crowley?”

“I doubt it.” He growled in response.

“Oh, no, no. You had your chance. You could've put me back in the Cage, but... you had to make it personal, didn't you?”

“You're right. It _is_ personal.” Crowley admitted. “You humiliated me. I... I _hate_ you. Deeply. _Truly_. I'm gonna enjoy wiping that smug, self-satisfied look off your face. _Personally_.”

“You mean...this one?” Lucifer chortled, twisting his hands beside his cheeks like a fairground clown, cranking up his smile for the children. 

  
  
Crowley let an angel blade drop into his hand and stepped closer to the Devil.

“Come on, Crowley. You know whatever you try, you're gonna lose.”

Crowley tilted his head, _so true,_ he admitted to himself.

“You're right.” He smiled at Lucifer, and suddenly felt free, turned his head to look over to where Sam and Dean dithered beside the rift, waiting to light the holy oil.

Felt a sudden wave of sentiment towards them…. Sam and Dean Winchester, whenever there was a world ending crisis at hand, Crowley knew where to place his bets, it was on _them,_ those big, beautiful, lumbering piles of flannel. He shot them a smile. Wondering vaguely where demons went when they died and shifted the angel blade in his hand.

  
Eyed the Winchester’s tense faces again and let out a breath.

“Bye, boys.”

  
  
As last words went, they weren’t very eloquent, but maybe, after all those years of greeting the Winchester boys with a cocky, ‘ _Hello, boys,’_ they’d understand…

  
He turned his eyes back to Lucifer.

Then, before he could think too much more, or be tempted to back out.

Crowley lifted his arm sharply and stabbed the angel blade hard into the center of his own mass.

  
Felt a flare of agony radiating out from the blade; as Sam, Dean and Lucifer’s shocked faces seemed to wheel around him, chased onward by the agony of a thousand sizzling bolts of lightning.   
Then, there was a flash from behind the dune.

It drew the last of his dwindling attention as the spell to close the rift took its due.


	121. Wizard's First Rule

**The Thing You Hate**

**Chapter 121: Wizard's First Rule**

At first it was just a sound that rose and fell, one with a feeling of motion to it, like the sound of a brook trickling over pebbles on its own merry course to the sea.

But slowly the sounds became words, strung together in sentences.

He listened to them because their tone was soothing.

He attended to the act of trying to understand them because the voice felt familiar.

"...I still find it weird… I mean I always thought of martyr's as these amazing people. Victorious, bad-ass — well, I guess, good-ass really… but you know… action hero types, ones without flaws... or limits to their dedication."

Somewhere to his left Crowley heard a small jingle of metal on metal.

It brought to mind an image, of a small silver cross, an anti possession sigil, wedding and engagement rings, all strung on a fine silver chain encircling a pale throat.

The silver charms and rings would be chiming together with each subtle movement, in much the same manner a bell on a pet's collar would…

Pet, yes, he liked to call her that… with her pretty green kitten eyes, and that dark hair that framed her face like a lions mane … those splodgey freckles, one of which always reminded him of a child's grubby fingerprint right on the end of her snub nose…

"…My point is, life is weird…” the voice prattled on, “I wasn't doing anything lofty… I wasn't even sure it was _good_!  
I just wanted to stop my family suffering, just wanted to save Johnny you know!  
I thought it was selfish, sinful… weak and wrong.

  
…I remember the first time I faced it… that _Johnny_ was my road _too far_ …  
…that my dedication to God had _limits_. That I wasn't who I thought I was.  
It… it shakes you…you know… discovering that about yourself, that there are things you just can't get past…."

There was a hush for a time, sprinkled with subtle hints that the woman was still close by. It was companionable somehow, not being alone and Crowley found a spark of gratitude in the darkness of death.

"I spent so much time beating my self up over it, for loving my child _too much._ For not being worthy, or a good Christian… not being able to make the sacrifice Abraham was willing to make.  
So, I was shocked… yeah, _Shocked_! When Chuck turned up. When he t-told me He was _proud of me,_ and the choice I’d made…. That I'd done well…  
He said I _had_ sacrificed my son… _by letting go of him_ , and leaving him. Giving up my _need_ to hold onto him... That by choosing to die _myself_ , instead of handing the cost on to my children… It made me _like Him…_  
Chuck even asked my advice… mine! Can you believe that? Apparently, Amara wants Him to join with Her fully, whatever that means.  
I told Him, considering He wouldn't tell me what choices to make, it didn't seem appropriate for me to try telling _Him_ what to do.  
He laughed at that! I made God laugh, Crowley!"

A few more beats of quiet ensued, as if Michele was sitting there beside him searching for something more to say, or feeling her way towards something she felt nervous about.

"So, I've got all these titles, Crowley.  
Prophet, martyr… saint of God. The whole 'souls of the martyrs under the throne of God' thing, it always used to puzzle me when I read it in Revelations. I thought it would be sorta cramped, you know….  
But apparently, it's kinda more like a backstage, or VIP pass.  
Turns out not _all_ the good little boys and girls are locked up alone, getting their jollies.  
The downside is that they insist on us martyrs wearing these white robes… it makes me feel like a preschooler on a field trip or something, like I'm wearing a high-vis' vest, everyone looks at you when you're wearing white… It makes me self-conscious, I feel really conspicuous and people stare!"

Another moment of silence.

"The angels like to pretend that the bible is just a book, but there's this verse in first Corinthians that says that the saints of God will judge the angels..." there was a small huff of amusement, "I don't _really_ know what the verse means, but… _you should've seen their faces_ when I mentioned it….  
Terry Goodkind – wizards first rule: People —and angels I guess—are stupid, they will believe anything _they_ _want_ to be _true_ , or are _afraid_ _might be true.  
_ So now they're all worried Chuck's gonna put _me_ in charge of their performance evaluations… that I'll hold a grudge over the whole experimentation thing…"

There was a small sound like someone biting their lip and sucking in a small breath.

"So … as long as I'm tactful about it, we have this unspoken truce…they think they're giving me a certain amount of _extra leeway_ in exchange for me letting bygones be bygones.

None of them have ever bothered to read the bible _apparently,_ or caught the catch 22, that we 'saints of God' are only forgiven for our sins if we forgive others for theirs. The angels aren't exactly…

Well they aren't _happy_ with this little field trip… but that's mostly about … well, _you_ … it's about you… Crowley.  
You made quite a few enemies, in a lot of places… but the angels are nervous about saying no to me…

And you _are_ a grey area…

There was that thief on the cross next door to Jesus at the crucifixion. Jesus promised him he'd end up in paradise, just for telling the other guy that they both deserved what they were getting, and Jesus was innocent …

I mentioned that bit to the angels, _of course I did_ , I pointed it out _very respectfully_ … Along with the ' _no greater love_ has a man than this, that he lays down his life for his friends' thing… and that 'those who love belong to God.’  
You can thank Johnny and his autism for my skill at arguing logic chains and creating something like a solid case, out of what's little more than a hope...   
I learned to pick an isolated sentence out of the ministry of education guidelines and build what looks like a credible case, it's the only way to deal with people like principal Grant. She'd rather spend special needs funding on uniforms for the sports teams… Gotta learn how to talk the talk, to handle people like that. Especially if you're gonna be your kid with special need's advocate…

Anyway— I know, _I know,_ the whole self-sacrifice thing... it wasn't exactly prompted by loads of gushy sentimental love. And I _know_ that _maybe_ , it had a lot more to do with _hating Lucifer_ and wanting him to get his, for what he's done to you —or _would_ do to you. Than… umm… you _loving_ the Winchester's, God, or me.  
But… if there are only two sides… You did choose ours...

I'm grateful for that.

And for what you did for Johnny… though I had a bit of a freak out when Chuck told me _you took Johnny to a pedophile and fed him some date-rape drug— More that a bit of a freak out actually… Chuck says he’s gonna be_ _fine_ though, and I get that you were trying to help… in your own way."

"…. So, umm… angels and demons, when they die, they’re supposed to go somewhere that the reapers refer to as The Empty, capital T, capital E.  
None of _them_ were all that keen to talk to me, or explain what _that_ is… though one did tell me it is 'the second death' and 'beyond God's territory,' _that's why_ Billie was going to toss Sam and Dean there. It sorta sounds like The Nothing from the Never-ending Story to me.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but a ghost is just a fragment of a human spirit, one that gets stuck in a kind of… loop, a ghost can't really change or grow… So it gets more and more circular and ingrained in its obsessions and negative emotions as time goes by, they go kinda insane and lose their humanity and empathy… like demons are supposed to under torture?… And when you salt and burn a ghost's bones, or their tether, that spiritual fragment gets freed, and snaps back to join _the rest_ of the person, in heaven or hell? But when you kill a demon or burn its bones —because they have _already_ died— they must go straight to The Empty?  
 _You_ died and went to hell because of your deal, and you became a demon…?

But Crowley … now you're not _exactly_ a demon any more… it has to do with the, 'the life of the creature is in the blood,' thing… By taking in blood you participated in another person’s life… Some have argued that makes you more like a vampire or a monster… that you belong in Purgatory… but you aren't one of Eve's children — not even adopted, so I argued you _don't_ belong in Purgatory.

According to Chuck, you haven't been _exactly_ a demon for a while now, not since Sam did the thing with the trials, maybe even before that… you mentioned once that demons eat babies? I know Lilith liked to… and you were her right-hand man…" she made a sick gulping sound and cleared her throat uncomfortably, "babies are innocent, pure … kinda next door to consecrated, their blood could— this is all supposition you understand! If you'd _talk_ to me maybe, we could work up a hypothesis …

Anyway… the second law of thermodynamics should've been in effect, entropy can only increase in a closed system. So, without energy input things always degenerate, order goes inevitably back to chaos, so you _should_ have slowly been reverting…. back to demonic.  
— As an example, something dead shouldn't be able to heal; because it's dead, it _should_ only be able to decay… But you could even though your vessel is dead… you started making _new_ _choices_ , and _attempted_ to make things better in hell, didn't you Crowley?  
When you drank and injected _my_ blood… it further complicated things. Because of the prophet thing—

Crowley, at some point soon, this world's reapers will quit playing hot potato.—  
Right now they're arguing over whether AU you is _their_ responsibility since you aren't from this universe… then they'll debate where to put you, since they'll realise that they're stuck with you.

By straight logic, they'll vote for The Empty…. It's pretty much where you're _supposed_ to be headed.

  
But when you stabbed yourself, Chuck, He told me, _you were one phrase of Latin away from being cured._ I wish I'd known Crowley… if I'd known… I... "

There was a little huff.

"Seriously Crowley, come on! Give me a reaction!  
I know you can hear me.

I've been patient, but come on! _Please_ … _just talk to me!_  
I had a bit of success obliquely threatening angels, but reapers… they aren't gonna be intimidated by bible verses or what ifs.  
Talk to me! Please … Tell me what you _want_ …. _Please,_ _Crowley!? Help me help you._ "

There was another sigh and a small jingle. Then, her monologue picked up again.

"It wasn't until I saw the shell and Gavin's drawing ... No, it wasn't _truly_ until you wiped Johnny's memory and took him back to school ...that I began to let myself believe. —  
That I dared to think … you might choose..."

Michele took another breath and cleared her throat.

"Listen to me. Crowley, former King of Hell… Fergus Roderick Macleod, former tailor …. what you're feeling right now - it's not death. Well, not the final one. And it could be life - a new kind of life. Open your eyes, Crowley. See what I see. Feel what I feel…  
I've come to offer you a deal."

Crowley cracked his eyes open at that, and sat up.

"Did you steal those lines from me!? Seriously? woman, that's plagiarism!"

Dressed all in white, sans her glasses, the little prophet sat in the dust beside him (and his angel blade skewered, husk of meat-suit) with her hands primly in her lap.

  
Michele scrunched up her freckled little nose, and smiled nervously at him looking relieved.  
A spiderweb of fine red filaments trailed from one of her hands.

" _You_ don't belong here." He grumbled and glared at her in irritation. " _ **You**_ are _supposed_ to be in heaven, Pet! Not this God forsaken place."

"Nope," she disagreed making the 'p' on the end of the word pop sassily, her green eyes danced with amusement as she spoke.  
"I have an errand to run, a deal to offer, and an experimental protocol I've _literally_ been dying to investigate.  
It's sooo nice of you to _finally_ stop playing dead and ignoring me, Crowley.  
Thank-you!  
About blimming time… Seriously!  
So, you've heard the parable of the lost sheep haven't you, Crowley?  
You can say Baa now!"

He glared at her unimpressed and crossed his arms.

"The angels don't like you," she continued serenely, "the demons don't like you, the reapers don't like you, and the monsters _really_ don't like you, after that whole thing with the Alpha's…  
But, me… I'm weird… and possibly kinda idiotic, I _do_ sorta like you Crowley. You’re clever and amusing and _'I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples and bastards and broken things.'_ and you Crowley, _you_ tick _more_ than one of those boxes.  
You and I are bound by blood…" she raised the hand which trailed the spiderweb of red strands and plucked at one with a small finger making it give off a high muted note, like a harp string. He felt a vibration and hum in his own hand, looked down to see something similar attached to his own fist but with fewer threads.

Michele nodded. " _That's_ how I found you, Crowley, _'my blood… given for you for the remission of sins.'  
_ The angels, they don't want to dirty their hands with you, they wouldn't tolerate you anywhere near Heaven… except for this, _and_ their niggling worry that I'm right about 1 Corinthians 6:3.

I'd feel worse about that…. but I also get the feeling, they're all convinced that you _can't_ change, repent or be redeemed, no matter what.

  
And that, they assume I'll work that out on my own, and ship you off to The Empty with a reaper, long before the Final judgement happens.

That I'll learn my lesson… ' _once a demon always a demon'_ …" She quoted looking annoyed.

"Or maybe they just hope it will give me a reason to stay in my 'room' more, and out from under their feet, that I'll stop asking questions, quoting bible verses and generally getting on their nerves. I’m one of the few of my kind that doesn’t think they are all wonderful and hang on every word they say… though John the Baptist gives them a hard time just for the fun of it and the disciples are a bit problematic.

Not many of them have officially met God.

Anyway I guess they figure throwing me a bone it costs them nothing… And they have made it clear it’ll be my problem not theirs if you start driving me mad or messing up my heaven.”

She tilted her head and stared at him searchingly.

"Anyway… I'm not asking you to come take a howl at the moon Your Majesty.

I'm asking you to… come and walk on streets of gold with me.  
I'm offering you a seat at my banquet table, in heaven. A brother… a home, and a family.  
I _can_ offer you someone who _cares_. 

All the things you never got first time around… things you think you wanted, the lack of which, you blame for _everything_ else you've done.

I've raised twins before… I can offer you a childhood beside my son Davi'.

You and I _could_ answer the question, of who you _could have been_ if things and your mother had been different. The question of whether people end up in Heaven or Hell as a function of nature or nurture.  
Do you carry Hell inside you, Crowley? Or can you break free, can you change? Do you _truly_ want to?

What I’m offering is a chance, nothing more.

It's your choice, whether you'll risk _everything you are_ on a _chance_ of a better way … of redemption."

The former King of Hell gazed at the little prophet's earnest face in shock.

"Are you _actually_ asking me to shack up with you on the other side of the pearly gates, asking _me_ to play a game of happy families with you and your dead child?"

She tilted her head with a hopeful smile on her lips and nodded.

"So, my options are this Empty place, which is _possibly_ some kind of cosmic garbage disposal… or _you_?"

The prophet closed her eyes with a huff in amusement and nodded again. "Mmm-hmm, pretty much…  
Look I don't want to pressure you…"

She waved her free hand, and for the first time Crowley shifted his perspective, and noticed the still forms of Lucifer, Sam and Dean frozen glacially, in mid-motion, staring past them, to Crowley's now empty meat-suit with triple looks of disbelief.

"Time passes differently for the dead, but it _does_ pass; you know that.

All my titles and close personal connection with The Creator might not work to hold back _this world's_ servants of Death.  
If you don't want to take my deal, I do suggest you stay here. AU Crowley stepped on less toes than you did back home… But if The Empty isn’t some sort of cosmic insinkerator you might find yourself sharing space with a less appealing version of yourself. I’m not sure I’d want to share a room with the other version of me, apparently she never married Phil or had kids, I think she could be sorta anal and snobby....

So— we really ought to get back to our universe."

Michele got to her feet and offered him a hand to rise.

He took it and stood without looking down at his empty meat-suit.|  
Looked once more at Sam, Dean and Lucifer.

"What about them?"

Michele looked at Sam and Dean for a moment.

"Crowley, we are _dead_ , what ever happens now, _it's not up to us._ You have two choices _…_ follow me, or don't. This isn't our story anymore."

"I really don't see I have much to lose, now, do I Darling?" He raised their joined hands to his lips and kissed her small one gallantly, held her eyes, and raised his brow.

Michele smiled at him then, with a slightly off-center smile that showed just a tiny hint of her sharp little canine teeth, and lit her green eyes with sparks of blue and yellow. She dropped her chin and looked up at him from under lowered lashes.

"Then, if we have a deal. Say ' _Yes_ ' to me, Crowley." She instructed breathlessly.

There was something in those words and that look, that sent a thrill of unease through him; but he pushed the feeling aside.

" _Yes_ , ma Cherie, we have a deal … Would you like a kiss to seal our deal, as well?"

"' _Yes_ ,' is all I need." She answered primly and a triumphant smile broke on her face.  
Her little hand tightened on his as she led him back towards the rift, almost dancing on small feet.

Then, she looked back, over her shoulder at him and her innocent doe eyes took on a feline cast.

"I might not have told you the _entire_ truth. But I never lied.  
 _I never lied,_ _Crowley_. That's important. It's fundamental…

Do you remember the story of Heaven, Hell and the banquet tables? Have you _really_ thought about what I said? One person's Heaven can be another person's Hell, if I'm wrong about your potential for redemption, this might just be a new and different form of torture for you.  
We both know you are a bit of a masochist.

Have you ever heard the joke? 'How do you torture a masochist…?'

  
This _could_ be the punchline." She tugged him another step towards the rift and tossed her hair back over her shoulder, with another small cat-like smile.

Alarmed, he tried to wheel back, away from her, to shake her off, but found he was powerless.

"Now, now Crowley…" She chided, "a deal's a deal! You said 'Yes.' You're _my_ pet now.  
You _**chose,**_ Crowley… This is justice _and_ mercy, choice _and_ consequence…

  
How does a creature of darkness feel when it's dragged out into the light?  
Are you a moth to a flame, yearning for the light?

Will it burn your wings?

We are going to find out, you and I.

The cost for you _might_ be a greater torment, a fluffy version of _a different kind of Hell,_ one that ends up being _**real**_ torment for a masochistic creature like you, if you _can't_ change or repent…  
...But it's too late now… there are no take-backs.

You gave yourself over to me and God, for better or worse.  
So… let's go see where the streets of gold take us, shall we?"

With that she tugged him the last step and into the rift.


	122. 122

**The following are entries taken from the journal of Sam Winchester.**

May 18th 2017

We have a plan it’s mostly Crowley’s idea, we are going to get Lucifer through the rift Kelly’s kid is creating somehow, intend to trap him there; on the other side, the rift goes to some apocalypse world, in a parallel universe.

Yeah that’s pretty much as crazy as it sounds. But when’s that new for us?

Crowley’s has been acting weird lately, helpful, he turned up at the bunker and offered to help us deal with Lucifer and then shut the gates of hell.

We thought it was another play, so when we found out where Cas and Kelly were Dean pined him to one of the tables in the library using the demon blade. Stopped him tagging along with us. But Crowley got out and followed, turned up with this crazy plan to get rid of Lucifer, using a spell from some ancient tablet ( the tablet of Destinies, which apparently was what Belshazzar used when he sent us to that parallel universe, where the supernatural was a TV program and Dean and I were actors.)

The spell is supposed to heal-up the rift and trap Lucifer over there. It needs angelic grace, amongst other things, which Crowley conveniently had a source for, said he just needed the grace extraction device.

I wasn’t all that keen on lending it to him. But he came through and is over there, on the other side of the rift in apocalypse world right now, setting up the spell.

When Lucifer turns up to get his kid, Cas is going stab him, and piss him off, then we’re gonna get him to chase us through the rift.

Once we’re on other side, Dean will shoot Lucifer full of angel killing bullets using a gun the apocalypse world Bobby gave us.

Yeah there’s another Bobby over there and we met him, it’s bizarre, he doesn’t know us, because _in that world_ Mom never made the deal with Azazel and we were never born, Dad stayed dead.

There was an apocalypse and a war between heaven and hell over there. All the humans left over after the apocalypse and Croatin and stuff, are caught in the middle of that war, hunted by _both_ the angels and the demons.

Over there demons have pointy teeth and horns and angels are even bigger assholes than they are here, they collect baby ears to make necklaces and murder humans for sport, and those are the ones on _Michael’s_ side, because apparently Michael won the battle with Lucifer over there.

Anyway, we aren’t sure how much damage the angel bullets will do to Lucifer, but _we’re hoping_ they’ll knock him down and slow him up enough, along with a ring of holy oil flame surrounding the rift, so we can do the spell and get home leaving Lucifer trapped there behind us.

Having our Lucifer dumped over there might help things for the remaining humans, give their Michael someone else to concentrate on.

Hopefully their Michael will kill off our Lucifer, or they’ll weaken each other and keep each other busy, give the humans there more of a fighting chance.

Then we get to work out what to do with Kelly’s kid, as I said, Crowley got the angel grace needed for the spell from somewhere, (wonder which angel he duped into donating it???) He says he can use the grace extractor and that he’ll help us extract the grace from Kelly’s kid if Cas won’t.

The grace extraction should theoretically down power and turn Kelly’s kid into a human.

Unfortunately, Crowley seems to think there’s not much chance of Kelly living through he kids birth now she’s in labour.

So that’s the plan, wish us luck.

May 20th 2017

I don’t even know we’re to begin.

Dean and I are alive.

I’ve been sitting here trying to work out what to write and how to explain everything.

I’m going to try telling it step by step, as a record of what happened.

Lucifer turned up and knocked Cas out, but Dean and I still got him to chase us through the rift.

Crowley had the spell set up and Dean started shooting him with Bobby’s angel machine gun.

Then the gun jammed and Lucifer started beating Dean, Crowley and I got the spell done, then Crowley told me that it required another ingredient. A life. The spell to close the rift requires a death, I think Crowley thought he’d use the vessel Lucifer was inhabiting for it, instead Lucifer made Crowley stab himself in the gut with an angel blade.

Crowley’s dead.

Crowley’s death triggered the spell to heal the rift.

Then all of a sudden Cas came barreling through the rift and charged at Lucifer.

The only thing I could think about was getting Dean out of there, before the rift shut.

I guess I trusted Cas knew what was going on, and that the rift was closing, thought he’d get a few hits in on Lucifer to slow him down and then retreat, light the ring of holy oil Crowley set up.

Cas knew the plan.

I don’t know what happened.

We didn’t think of putting a ring of holy oil on our side of the rift.

We didn’t have time anyway, Dean and I came through and just stood there, staring, waiting for Cas, hoping and praying he’d get through before the thing closed.

When Cas stepped back into our world I’ve never been so relieved.

Then there was another flash ...

God!

Lucifer stepped through the rift right behind Cas and stabbed him in the back.

Cas is dead.

I don’t know if Cas forgot to light the holy oil or if Lucifer did something. I just don’t know!

Then Mom came marching out of the house, and told Lucifer to get away from us. Dean says she had the men of letters angelic knuckle dusters.

She punched Lucifer in the face, and kept punching him.

Mom drove Lucifer back into the rift.

But just as he fell into it, he reached back and grabbed Mom’s jacket, and pulled her through with him.

Then the rift closed, disappearing like it had never been, and left us on this side.

Mom’s gone.

She’s over in apocalypse world with Lucifer.

Best case scenario, Lucifer lost it and Mom’s dead.

But I know Lucifer, Mom’s not dead, even if he killed her, he’ll have brought her back, he’ll be hurting her... and I know exactly how bad and how long he can do that to someone....

God, how’s this possible.

I just can’t...

After standing there stunned, I realised the lights in the house were flickering.

Mom was gone, and if the child had been born, Kelly would be dead too.

The only ones left to deal with Lucifer’s kid were me and Dean; and Dean wasn’t in any state to do anything. Cas was dead, Mom was gone...

I found Kelly’s body in her room, laid out on the bed, she didn’t even look like she’d been pregnant or had given birth, she looked at peace, like she was simply sleeping, except that her eyes were open, and she was dead.

I reached out and closed her eyes, then saw it.

Foot prints made of glowing embers, burned into the floor boards leading away from Kelly’s body.

They weren’t baby sized and they got bigger as they crossed the room.

I’m not even sure what I was thinking as I followed them into the room Cas and Kelly had set up for a baby, it had a mural on the wall, the name Jack and an apple tree.

I think it was the name Jack that gave me pause, I dreamed Michele came to me and we talked, she’d said Kelly named her son Jack, said Kelly’s kid, Jack, wasn’t evil, that he was just a kid and he had a choice of who he’d become... that if we looked out for him, taught him and gave him a chance, Kelly’s son wouldn’t be like Lucifer. She said Kelly left Jack a message telling him that…

Then I saw him.

Kelly’s kid, he wasn’t a baby, he was too big even to be a kid; he was naked and curled up on the floor by the crib, hugging his knees.

His eyes were glowing gold.

The exact same color as Michele’s do when she has a vision, maybe it was the combination of the name on the wall and how his eyes were glowing that color that made me think, a kid isn’t responsible for what their parents do, this kid had two parents, Cas believed in him, and maybe being the devil’s kid doesn’t make him evil ... so I didn’t go for my gun.

The nephilim looked up at me when I walked in and smiled.

Asked me if I was his father and stood up. That gave me a better look at him.

He looked like someone in their late teens or 20’s, shorter than me or Dean, but the size of an adult. It didn’t seem possible he could have grown to that size in minutes.

He asked me if I was his father again, and looked confused.

Then Dean stormed in, and took a shot at the him I deflected it on instinct, stopped Dean from shooting the kid.

But either Dean storming in or the gunfire freaked him out, he yelled, and it did something weird.

For a second it was like time ran thick, then we were blasted across the room and blacked out.

When we woke up it was just us.

Kelly’s kid was gone.

Turned out that Jack followed the road out of there and found his way to a local burger joint buck naked, still looking for his father.

One of the kids that worked there called her Mom who happened to be the local Sheriff, and she came and picked him up, found him some clothes and was trying to work out where he belonged.

Apparently there was a lot of screaming going on on angel radio during this time, which kept making Jack freak out and his powers go haywire.

Seems autistic kids and nephilim have a bit in common, if you freak them out they’re a bit like unstable dynamite on a trampoline during a fireworks display.

Jack freaked out when the angels started screaming over angel radio, stunned the sheriff, then we got there and I hit him with a taser, which knocked him out.

By then the Sheriff had recovered and she pulled a gun on us.

She locked me in a cell with Jack while she questioned Dean about what the heck was going on.

When Jack woke up I tried to calm down and talk to him.

Turned out the father Jack was looking for wasn’t Lucifer. He was looking for Cas, Kelly had been communicating with him or _he’d been her somehow,_ before he was born, she told him he couldn’t be a baby or a child, that he needed to grow up fast and that Cas would be his father and look out for him.

Jack wasn’t really hostile he was just freaked out and confused.

Then the angels turned up, tried to make the Sheriff shoot Dean and then stabbed her son when she didn’t.

They tried to take Jack.

Apparently they weren’t there to kill him, they think he can do just about anything, and they want to use him.

They beat the tar out of me when I tried to stop them taking Jack, but I managed to use an angel banishing sigil, (which seemed to hurt Jack a little but didn’t really effect him) that left only one angel which Dean was dealing with.

When that one realised she couldn’t take Jack she decided to kill him instead.

Stabbed him in the heart with an angel blade, before we killed her.

Being stabbed didn’t kill Jack, he took an angel blade to the heart like it was nothing.

We have no idea what _will_ actually kill him.

Dean’s agreed to let me bring Jack home to the bunker with us, he says that way we’re the only ones Jack can hurt.

Dean thinks Jacks evil, or that he’s going to turn that way.

I… I really don’t know. Most of the time he seems innocent, like some lost, confused kid.

We went back to the cabin and gave Cas and Kelly a hunters funeral. Cas had a memory stick in his pocket, it’s a message from Kelly to Jack, just like Michele said in my dream. I don’t know what that means… I need to talk to her, but first we need to sort things with Jack.

Dean thinks Mom’s dead, that Lucifer killed her, but I’m not so sure…

With Cas gone…. With the tablet of destiny and Crowley gone, our only chance of getting Mom back from apocalypse world is probably Jack, getting him to reopen that doorway again.

We need him, I keep trying to tell Dean that, but he won’t listen. The grace extraction apparatus is on the other side of the rift, in Apocalypse world so that plan isn’t going to happen now.

Anyway that’s pretty much what’s happened so far.

The world hasn’t ended, but we’ve lost so much. Cas is dead, Kelly’s dead, Crowley’s dead and Mom…

Dean’s a wreck, he’s so angry and blames Jack for everyone who’s dead, says God doesn’t give a damn and we are on our own.

Dean is insisting on driving straight through to the bunker.

Lucifer’s son is in the back seat asleep and I’m writing this as a way to avoid thinking about everyone and everything we’ve lost.


	123. 123

May 21st 2017

I finally got Dean to pull into a motel after he swerved to miss an imaginary sheep on the road, he was either hallucinating or more likely fell asleep at the wheel.

I wish for once he’d just admit he’s human! It drives me insane.

That Dean let himself get to the point where he’s screwing up at the wheel shows what a mess he is. It’s like when dad died all over again, he’ll keep going and pretending he’s okay right up til when he snaps.

I’m not sure I’m gonna be able to handle it when he does.

We had a surprise visit last night, Donatello Redfield turned up outside our motel door, said he sensed a power and came to check it out. Thought it was God. Guess the power he sensed was Jack. Which freaks Dean out a bit.

Donatello doesn’t have a soul now, apparently Amara sucked it out when she was trying to find Chuck, but he hasn’t turned into a psycho killer, though he says he hasn’t got a moral compass any more, he just asks himself what Mr Rodgers would do and does that. Yeah, I’m not sure how workable that is long term, but Dean and I aren’t exactly in a state to work that one out right now. As long as he doesn’t go off the resovation and start killing people I think either of us can make ourselves care right now.

It does answer Cas’ question about what happened to him after the stuff with Amara.

It also brings up the question of how there appear to be two active prophets…. Well sorta active prophets, soiled prophets.

Yeah it all makes my head hurt.

Are Donatello and Michele doing some kind of weird job share? Are either of them really prophets or just …. I dunno false activations.

I keep remembering what Crowley said about God and Amara being opposing forces, as far as we can figure removing the mark of Cain from Dean and Amara being released activated Donatello. So is Donatello really _God’s sister’s prophet_?

I don’t know.

We haven’t mentioned Michele to Donatello, I mean he doesn’t have a soul, and I’m not sure how he’d react to hearing he isn’t the only one.

Best to keep her out of it.

I set her a message last night, just telling her that we’re still alive and that maybe Jack might be okay like she thought.

She hasn’t replied, she’s probably busy, I hope she’s just busy, that she isn’t in hospital again.

I keep remembering the dream I had on the way to North Cove, in it, Michele said she was sicker than she’s admitted to us. That she was dying.

That worries me, I mean some of the stuff in that dream was factual, Jack is Jack, and Kelly did leave a message for him.

I can’t help wondering if it was some sort of message from God, but then I remember the last-time I thought God was trying to tell me stuff with dreams or visions, it ended up that Lucifer was playing me.

Anyway, Crowley had the grace extraction device, and it’s stuck over there in apocalypse world with Mom and Lucifer.

Grace extraction as an answer is out, for now. With both Michele and Jack. I’m not sure Jack would allow us to suck out his grace anyway. After Donatello turning up, and the thing with the angels, it made us realise Jack isn’t incognito anymore. We figured we better get him inked up with an anti-possession tattoo and warding.

When the tattoo guy started on him with the needle Jack had… I dunno what to call it, a power surge, he nearly blew up the man’s machine and knocked him across the room.

Dean got pissed at Jack and told him to man up, it was kinda funny, Jack went all philosophical and said he understood, that “pain is a part of the complete human experience. And accepting it is a sign of maturity.”

That’s the thing about Jack he’s sort of clueless but weirdly smart.

The combination is almost endearing.

Anyway he let the tattooist do his work and everything was fine… until he finished and Jack looked at it, then the tattoos just sort of dissolved into his skin and vanished.

Of course Dean saw it as another sign Jack’s evil, despite Donatello saying his power isn’t like Lucifers, that it’s not dark or toxic.

I think the thing with the tattoo machine and Jack’s disappearing warding were just involuntary reflexes.

I go back and forth, I mean Donatello thought Jacks power was God when he followed it, that’s freaky, and he’s Lucifer’s son, which I find hard to get past, but most of all he reminds me of Cas, he even sounds like him in the early days.

Maybe that’s why Dean finds him so hard to be round, and why he’s so set on hating him.

Jack for his part doesn’t resent Deans attitude, he actually seems to want to be like Dean, he copies the way he does everything, how he sits and eats… it’s sorta amusing.

And kind of heartbreaking.

I remember Dean copying Dad in the exact same way when we were kids.

Jack wants Dean to like him, and he’s just so naive and clueless.

When Dean asked him if he could teleport, and he didn’t understand, Dean asked him if he wanted to be on the other side of the door right then, what he’d do, and Jack got up, opened up the door and went out.

Then he knocked on it and when I opened it up again Jack was standing there grinning at me like a gormless puppy who had just managed to do a trick.

He really just wants to please, I think he can be taught to use his power for good.


	124. 124

May 22nd 2017

Finally got a chance to update this.

Quite a bit has happened.

Most importantly we’ve learned that Asmodeus, fourth and last Prince of Hell also has an interested in Jack and can apparently shape shift.

After what happened at the tattoo parlour Dean was being a complete asshole and Donatello started in on how you can’t teach a lion not to be a lion.

There were raised voices.

I guess everybody being upset freaked Jack out, turns out both healing tattoos, and teleporting are instinctive.

He wanted to get away from us, so he did, no opening of doors needed this time.

Thankfully he didn’t go far.

I found him behind the motel in the alley way.

I feel bad, Dean and I aren’t really equiped to parent a normal kid, let alone a Nephilim.

We keep forgetting Jack’s only a couple of days old, us all yelling and being angry freaked him out …

It’s funny, I find myself remembering Michele talking about her oldest boy, the autistic one, and how he gets freaked out by yelling, even on the T.V.

This is going to sound awful, but I really hadn’t thought about any of that stuff in context to Jack, he’s the son of Satan, needing to provide a calm stable environment for him, yeah not my first though or priority. I mean we grew up in the kind of places where there was always someone screaming on the other side of the wall.

Dad was drunk a lot, he yelled. Things between Dean and I got heated all the time and we screamed at each other, all the time.

I know none of it’s great. Dean doesn’t even want him to watch T.V, I thought he was being a jerk, punishing him for Mom and Cas, but maybe he has a point.

I kept recalling these little things Michele drops in about her kids when we talk. Dean calls them her, “this one time at band camp,” moments.

Anyway I remember her saying once, how her boy freaks out, and that people touching him or getting in his face can make it worse, make him lose it worse, that she needs to stay calm round him even when she doesn’t feel that way.

I’m starting to think we need to handle Jack the same, Michele also said she has to explain ‘the chain of events,’ and why people do what they do and react how they do, because her kid doesn’t _just know that stuff_ like other kids . It’s gotta be the same with Jack. He’s smart and he’s got all this knowledge, and facts in there, but he doesn’t really have a base for interpretation.  
Have to keep that in mind when we’re dealing with him.

Maybe I should ask Michele to recommend a parenting book or something. Maybe I should ask her to give Dean a lecture too. Weirdly I think he’d listen to her more than me on the topic of Jack.

When I found him, I tried to explain things to him, that he needs to learn how to control his powers so he doesn’t hurt people. Then he asked me if his powers were why Dean hated him… (so much for hoping he was clueless) and if Dean thinks he’s going to hurt someone.

I told him it wasn’t that Dean hates him, it’s just how Dean acts when he’s afraid of something, that Dean feels the need to protect everyone and not knowing how to do that makes him upset, that protecting people is pretty much what we do. That we need to protect him, but we also need to protect other people _from him._

Jack said he wasn’t worth protecting.

What was I supposed to say to that?

I told him his Mom and Cas believed he was worth it. 

That I do too.

I think I was telling the truth.

After we talked, Jack and I went back to the room and Dean wasn’t there. Turns out he wasn’t out looking for Jack, he’d gone to get a drink.

I figured Dean needed some time and distance from Jack, that Jack could use a bit of space from Dean as well.

I asked Donatello if he’d mind Jack sharing his room for the night.

Was beyond thankful he agreed.

Sharing a room with a soulless prophet who’s modelling himself after Mr Rodgers, seemed like a more stable environment for the devils kid, than hanging out with me and Dean, especially if Dean came back drunk.

Besides, soulless people don’t need to sleep, where as I couldn’t remember when Dean and I had last slept. 

Lack of sleep might have been why I didn’t consider that soulless people don’t make the best babysitters. In the morning Donatello went out to get food without telling us. Just left Jack alone ’cause he was hungry.

While he was gone, someone that looked like, and I thought _was,_ Donatello, came to our room and we talked about Jack. 

Not long after some demon goons attacked us.

By the time we dealt with them, Jack and fake Donatello were gone.

It wasn’t a big leap to figure demons had Jack.

Donatello’s power sniffing skills came in handy and we were able to track Jack.  
To Jasper, Wyoming. A place which according to the lore contains a gate to hell.

Fake Donatello told Jack that God, his grandfather, had a message for him, and God wanted him to use his powers to free some of God’s special soldiers, the Shedim, who’d been trapped in cavern in hell long ago.

Fake Donatello told Jack he needed to free them and that he’d be a hero.

From what I can tell the Shedim are some kind of demon and not the normal ones, something far worse. They weren’t ever human.

Jack says it was like fake Donatello got inside his head and made, or helped him access his powers. 

We turned up just as Jack was cracking open the gate, one of what ever they were was just about to emerge; but seeing us and the real Donatello helped to snap Jack out of it, and the gate snapped shut.

Dean took a shot at fake Donatello, which made him showed his true form.

A yellow eyed demon, we’re assuming it was Asmodeus, since there are only supposed to be four princes of Hell and the other three are dead.

Asmodeus started to crush the life out of us, but Jack stopped him (Dean, of course, insists that was just another reflex not a choice to save us.)

When Asmodeus realised his cover was blown, he took off.

The whole thing, predictably, has Dean even more spun out over Kack and his potential.

We’re back in the bunker now.

Jack’s pretty much stayed in his room since we got here, which is a bit worrying, but I guess he’s still trying to get his bearings.

I’m thinking it’s a good idea to show Jack Kelly’s messages, he seems pretty shaken up by everything, and Dean’s attitude isn’t helping.

I think it’d be good for him to watch Kelly’s message, it might help his self-esteem or whatever, remind him that he has a human side as well as all these scary powers.

I could really do with some advice on this whole parenting thing, I can’t escape the feeling I’m screwing it up.

Dean and I are pretty screwed up, we can’t be providing a great nurturing or learning environment for him, what with everything.

But it’s not like we can dump into foster care, is it? We need to keep him safe and keep everyone else safe from him.

Michele hasn’t replied to any of my messages, and I keep thinking about that dream. I kissed her, and she didn’t exactly welcome it, which I mean, yeah okay it was a dick move… she’s married.

It was only a dream, and it just happened...

Thing is, what if that dream was more real than I thought, and she’s pissed at me.

I mean it was just a kiss, so what, right?

Except … well, Michele, she’s religious and has led a pretty sheltered life. She’s not like us.

Maybe she’s avoiding me.

This is nuts, I’m babysitting the devil’s son, have bigger things to worry about, and yet I’m sitting here, stressing out over whether I’ve offended a woman on the other side of the world, who I’ve never actually met, by kissing her in a dream.

No wonder Dean calls me a girl.

I need to get a grip.


	125. 125

June 14th, 2017

I can’t do this, I thought I could, I’m not even sure what I was thinking.

That I’d finish her story?

That I’d tell you how things ended?

Do they ever end?

Kelly had it right, there are no happy endings.

Maybe I thought I’d create a smoke screen to cover up the facts, in case someone connected the dots. That it was the least I could do, to look out for her family.

I thought if someone did the research, found the article about her death, they’d be more likely to write it off if they saw it was finished way after her death.

But here I am, screwing that up.

I really don’t know why.

It was okay when I was just copy and pasting entries from my journal, from the time I was clueless.

Maybe it was like when Michele felt she could keep the archbishop’s staff alive by not writing their fate, only in reverse.

Maybe part of me wanted to keep Michele alive a little longer. To hold on to my ignorance.

Michele’s dead, she has been for nearly a month and I didn’t realize.

I didn’t notice.

But you knew.

Did you even care?

Did any of you shed tears? Or was her death just 15 minutes of entertainment.

Sure, I thought of her during that month, I missed her, I … well mostly I wanted her advice, her help.

That’s how it worked wasn’t it?

Crowley was right, what did I EVER do for her? Nothing!

I didn’t even notice she was awol for a month.

What kind of friend does that make me?

I think of all the times she said I should read her story, and I wonder now if that was her cry for help?

A cry I ignored.

If I’d just gotten over myself and read her story, I could have helped her. 

Why didn’t I read her story?

Why didn’t I see, why didn’t I take her more seriously?

Why?!

If I’d paid attention when she told us about the blonde man, Crowley was holding prisoner, we wouldn’t have been caught with our pants down.

I would have known about Crowley, and that he was threatening her, threatening her family, stalking her, using her as his own personal blood source to sate his addiction.

An addiction I created.

Crowley found out about Michele from the British men of Letters; I should have realized she was in danger. That it was just a matter of time.

I know now, New Zealand wasn't far enough away - and that's my fault. Our fault ... we didn't worry enough.

And Crowley, he wouldn’t have lost control of Lucifer if he hadn’t started drinking her blood.

Was that my fault too? Him wanting to one-up me, because he was jealous. His jealousy and his obsession with Dean (and Michele) were-are they really just …. Mine? I don’t know.

There are so many things I don’t know, things I don’t understand even after reading her story.

Crowley sacrificed himself.

Lucifer didn’t kill him; he chose to die...

Crowley chose to die because he saw a possibility of a future where we beat and kill Lucifer.

But he also saw a future where I said yes to Lucifer, where I let him in again, where Lucifer used me, to do awful things, to Michele and her family, to Crowley, to Jack… to the world.

And now Crowley’s in heaven????

The way her story ended; it was disconcerting.

I’m not sure what to think.

It was almost like she was trying to scare Crowley in the end, or gloating about tricking him.

Was it Michele? Did I really know her? I’m never going to get those answers.

I need, I want some sort of closure. I deserved a chance to tell her...

Tell her what? 

God I’m a hypocrite, I don’t deserve anything!

Michele has been dead for over a month and I didn’t even know.

Didn’t even think about how I hadn’t heard from her, not really, didn’t even really consider how sick she must have been, before… before Crowley healed her.

  
Crowley did more for her than I ever did.

All I thought of was asking her advice on how to deal with Crowley’s right,Jack, and that she was avoiding me over that kiss, because that’s how it always was, wasn’t it?  
  
Crowley’s right, her death, losing her isn’t my sole property, I make everything about me, us, our dramas.

I remember the words in one of Pastor Jim’s liturgies.

 _“Not worthy to gather the crumbs from under your table.”_

—yeah. Sums it up.

It was Dean who really woke me up to how we hadn’t heard from her for too long.

He kept nagging me, and finally I figured I’d just phone her.

That if she _was_ upset, I’d either brush it off or apologize, tell her it was nothing, that it meant nothing.

I had a whole speech worked out.

Then her husband answered the phone, he went quiet for a long time when I asked to speak to her, then apologized, for not contacting me, and said he was sorry to tell me, but… Michele was dead.

He said she’d been stabbed in what the police assumed was a home invasion.

Someone looking for drugs, that whoever did it, must have seen her at the cancer unit receiving treatment and assumed she had access to opioids or other drugs.

She didn’t, and either the thieves didn’t believe her, or she surprised them and they panicked.

The police had no leads.

Then I found the news article.

And it didn’t seem right, the emergency call from someone with an English accent, the stuff with her son, it couldn’t have been that random.

So, I sacked up and decided to read her story.

The thing I hate.

So true, yet it’s all any of us have left of her.

I thought about deleting it.

But in the end, I just couldn’t, it might be a story about Dean and I … but mostly it’s Michele. She deserves to have that story told.

She always said people should know the truth, thought keeping the supernatural a secret was foolish. That the truth was always best, that people should know what’s out there in the dark.

I really want to track down that woman, Josephine MacGoff, and end her.

But I know Michele wouldn’t want that. And I can’t help wondering. Was she was trying to sow seeds of a better way there, was she was trying to get the BMoL to consider scientific research… and vaccination.

Of course she was, that’s Michele through and through? Trying to save people _her way._

_A Safety rail at the top of the cliff._

Would it be possible? To vaccinate someone against becoming a werewolf or a vampire? The whole country? It would save more people than me or Dean ever have, or could.

Now they’ve been cured, are Claire and Dean immune? Are those things just like some disease?

I’m just a hunter, so I don’t know. I don’t even know how you’d start trying to find out.

Dean … I don’t know how I’m going to tell him Michele’s dead too.

The two of them were closer than I knew, her death might push him over the edge. After Cas and Mom… and Crowley.

Part of me needs Dean to know that in the end Crowley chose to be a hero, that there’s a potential for peace for him, or something else if he can’t change.

Justice and Mercy.

To be honest I still don’t know how to feel about how things went down with Crowley.

He’s in Heaven, after everything he’s done. He got Forgiveness and had his slate wiped clean, it seems too generous.

Does Chuck care? He lurks behind the scenes pulling strings, but won’t tell any of us what to do, or help us out.

I can’t help resenting that!

Did he think it was cute to add his little “message from your sponsor,” like it was some advertising break?

I can imagine Michele smiling at me, saying, "you know nothing Jon Snow," if she heard me say any of this.

But she won't, will she? Because she’s dead.

Her kids have to grow up without her because Chuck couldn’t just deal with Lucifer or pick a side.

Fucking Lucifer!

When I think how she tried to warn us ... but we blew her off, and thought she knew nothing.

We were the ones who were wrong.

I've made so many fucking mistakes, and I'm SORRY.

But sorry doesn't cut it, not for her family... her husband... her kids. She loved them so much...

Loved us to I think, she said it often enough, even though we didn't deserve it.

Is she okay in heaven with Crowley?

Is Crowley?

Michele I finally read it.

I read every word of the story you wrote; I wish I'd done it sooner. I wish I'd known...

You were my friend. And I miss you! Not just because you gave us tomorrows news today. But because you were our light... and our friend... and you believed in us... right now I’m struggling to believe Michele. I’m so angry!

Your story .... it's still 'the thing I hate.' But I hate it most because it's not enough! Your story shouldn't have ended Michele. I wish you were ignorant and safe. I wish you were alive. But we Winchesters don't get our wishes, do we?

You people out there reading this, I need you to know, that Michele was a real person, real and heroic in her own way, though she never saw it.

She thought God made her write this fucking story for a reason.

For you. 

Crowley wasn’t her only lost sheep.

I guess she loved you. If anyone could love a bunch of strangers scattered all over the world it would be Michele. And she'd want you to know that. That there was blood and tears and pain in this story... but there was love there too. Truth and love.

That’s the big reason I'm trying to finish her story.

I don't have her warmth or humor. I don't have her faith or hope... or her love.

And I'm not as acquainted with the truth as she'd have liked... So maybe it's a waste of time... but I'm trying.

Be worthy of that, and don't forget her.

It's one of my aims now.

To be worthy.

Being there for Jack has to be part of that.

\- Sam Winchester

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is where the I will leave this story


End file.
